Armour
by Rose Tinted Contact Lenses
Summary: Series of linked shorts. Morgana Amell and her companions all have their own personal battles - whether it's finding your family, betrayal, or learning to trust. What you don't see in the game, or a different perspective on what you do.
1. A Memory: Jowan

_This is the Morgana of _Control_ and _News_, by the way, just at a slightly different point in her life._

_This was started in May, and has undergone some revision and improvement since then._

_These little "a memory" interludes are to expand on a character's origin story._

_The game never explains how you met Jowan, so I thought I'd try and fill in a few gaps. I don't know if it's the same worldwide, but giving an orange seems to be an old Christmas tradition._

_Dragon Age, its world and its characters are all copyright BioWare and the game's writers (as you'd expect, I suppose)._

* * *

><p><strong>A Memory<strong>

**Jowan**

_The Eve of Satinalia, some years ago_

He'd seen the little girl as the Templars had carried her in. Kicking, screaming, sobbing, yelling for her parents. Trying to wriggle out of their grasp, small sparks flying from her fingers, face red and tear-stained. Even as a little boy, it was easy to see that a small girl against several fully-grown men in heavy plate armour didn't stand a chance of... doing whatever she was trying to do. Escape?

He was half-asleep when she was carried into the dormitory and placed gently on the bed next to his. The templar crept out (a difficult thing to do in heavy plate), leaving the door slightly ajar for the corridor's candlelight to slip into the room - for Ser Bran knew that some of the very young apprentices, including Jowan, were scared of the dark - and the room was once again shrouded in half-darkness. He rolled onto his side, pretending to be asleep, to sneak a look at the new arrival.

She was facing away from him, but he saw light brown hair, clashing with the blue of her new apprentice's robes, which, even though they were a children's set - she was lucky; he'd had to wear men's robes for his first few weeks in the Tower and had looked even more ridiculous - quite obviously didn't fit her. There were odd snuffling and hiccuping sounds coming from her. Was she still crying? To his very-nearly-six-year-old mind, this made no sense. The templars had let her go, hadn't they?

He was too scared to approach her, but her crying kept him awake all night, and made him feel... sad?

This was his childish mind's first taste of pity.

* * *

><p><em>Satinalia<em>

Every child in the Tower looked forward to Satinalia, even though all they received was one orange each from a scowling templar. A simple gift was better than nothing, after all. He was sure the templars hated giving them - he'd heard them grumbling about "Irving and his bloody oranges. Giving the little monsters _gifts_. Making them feel _special..._"

Jowan woke in the morning to find the girl sitting on her bed, rubbing her (still slightly red-rimmed) eyes. She looked up when she saw him stir and get out of bed. Frowning, she watched him reach to the bottom of his bed and pluck an orange out of the sock hanging off his bedpost. She did the same, only to find nothing there. Her face fell just a little more, and his heart sank. It didn't occur to him that she was new to the Tower, and might not have been given one because many templars didn't know she was there yet - he was five, and his reasoning was simple: every child got a gift at Satinalia. That was just how the world was. No gift was just... wrong.

He reached out and offered her his orange. She took it gingerly, offering him a tentative half-smile. He'd never seen her smile before; she had a nice one.

"I... I'm Jowan," he said, offering his name as shyly as he had the orange.

"'M Morgana," she said - since she had half an orange in her mouth, speaking clearly was impossible. She swallowed it. "How old are you?"

"Very nearly six," he said, proudly.

"Very nearly five," she replied equally proudly, and they shared another smile - a proper one, this time.

"Mother always used to give me Satinalia gifts," she said, sadly. "She was so sad when the men came and took me. She cried, too."

He thought she was lucky - her parents had loved her. When they'd found out what he could do, his had treated him like a monster. They'd called the templars immediately, keen for him to be shipped off to the Circle as soon as possible. Of course, he only grew to resent them for it when he was old enough to comprehend what they'd done - for the moment, he was just sad, and sometimes cried when he thought of his family.

She looked up, and her face brightened. "You're... quite nice," she said, in wonderment. "Will you... be my friend?"

He nodded, and went and sat on her bed.

For that half-hour in the early morning, before breakfast and lessons, they weren't two mages - they were a shaggy-haired, awkward little boy and a smiling little girl, sat sharing an orange on Satinalia morning.


	2. A Gift And A Curse

**A Gift And A Curse**

**Morgana**

Time slows down, her breath catching in her throat, as she watches them fall. The templars, Irving, Lily... herself.

Morgana looks back at her best friend, her big brother, the man she has loved and trusted since she was four years old, and she no longer knows who she is seeing. She is normally confident, sometimes even flippant, but now she is on the floor, a croaked word falling from her lips: "Jowan?"

He ignores her, rushing to Lily, but there is no resentment. She watches one more of those he loves treating him like a monster, the initiate, his former lover, pushing him away, and something in her breaks.

As he runs, as fast and as far as possible, for his life, she swears that, just once, he looks back at her.

He has always known she wants to escape the Tower, and there was a time she would have run with him... but not now.

Not like this.


	3. One Good Thing

**One Good Thing  
><strong>

**Alistair**

Honestly, no-one ever tells him _anything_. Quite why they'd put him in charge of the new recruits - sometimes he can't even put the right boot on the right _foot_. It may have been first thing in the morning, when he was still half-asleep, and _really_ hung over after _that _drinking contest, but still... if that's the case, how is he meant to keep three people alive? Well, alive until they go and take part in a ritual that might kill them anyway, but...

The mage obviously knows of his... _upbringing_. It's probably apparent anyway from the way he greets a couple of the templars at the camp - he knows them - or the way his hand strays to his sword at the sight of magic, ready for a fight. He sighs - he _really _needs to get out of the old templar habits. They're obviously not putting anyone at ease.

The Revered Mother guilted him into this errand, and, as he sees the mage's reaction, he realises she chose him because of the whole "nearly-templar" thing. He brings out his old friend flippancy as the mage's temper flares. "What, should I have asked her to write a note?"

As the mage stamps off after a terrible joke about naming his children, he thinks he hears a muffled laugh. This is confirmed by the mage stopping halfway down the slope and sneering to someone, "Oh, I've heard all about _you._ Here to make trouble for the Wardens, are you?"

The third recruit walks up to him, and he has to stop himself staring. Trouble? The other mage's attitude is... almost understandable. Her hair looks like she's been sleeping in a haystack - he'd know _that _look all too well - and she's wearing bloodstained - _very _bloodstained - mage's robes. She has a dagger, but is definitely a mage - every bone, every magical sense, in his body is confirming it. He's been in the Chantry far too long.

Exactly who _is _this woman?

* * *

><p>An easily-embarrassed, dagger-wielding mage who seems to want to ask each and every question about the Joining - which, of course, he can't breathe a word to her about - Grey Wardens, Ostagar and mabari that pops into her mind, he discovers, much to his misfortune. Also known as Morgana.<p>

Grey Wardens he can explain about - he knows the mythology back-to-front - but how do you explain what a mabari _is? _"You've never seen mabari before?" he asks her, frowning. "Not even on the way here?"

She shakes her head, fair hair nearly hitting him in the face. "There was the whole 'locked in a tower for years' thing, and then... well, I must have missed them."

After explaining mabari, he has to explain who and what _he _is. The moment he mentions the Chantry upbringing, something changes in her demeanour - her shoulders tense, and something shuts down behind her eyes that he can't quite name. The glimmer of... not warmth, exactly, but the look of mutual understanding - consideration? - and slight embarrassment from their earlier conversation is gone. Something cold, almost metallic, is there behind the blue. She exhales. "I... I see," she says, slowly, carefully, almost as if she doesn't trust herself with the words. "You were a mage hunter?" There is an edge to her voice that wasn't there before. The abashed, open girl of before is gone completely now.

He swallows, realising what is implied by her choice of words, and tries to make her understand that he never actually _completed _his initiation and has therefore never actually _properly _hunted a mage, but he can't help feeling that something has... _gone, _somehow. Her tone and pace are brisk, always polite but never friendly or curious, after that.

Of course, what he doesn't know is that the moment he revealed his training, her mind flashed back to her forced entry into the Tower and its Circle - to years of mistreatment as a second-class citizen. Every right denied, every templar standing just that _bit _too close, sword in hand, whenever she made a move to cast a spell, every day Anders spent in a stone cell with no-one but a _cat _for company... in that moment, he was dismissed as _just another templar._


	4. Steel

_You see few, if any, Arcane Warriors in-game - all mages seem to use staves. It can't be easy to have people forcing you to use a staff when you're more comfortable wielding a sword._

* * *

><p><strong>Steel <strong>

**Morgana**

She remembers the look of disappointment in the Enchanter's eyes as she struggled with the staff. At the time, he himself had only been a mage for two years, but tutors were needed and he'd been selected to help the very young apprentices - mainly because he rarely lost his temper, and never, _ever_ shouted. The children loved him, and it was returned in full. She thinks that it's because he sees himself in them.

Torrin tried to steady her. "Now, now, my dear, that is _not _how we hold a staff." He held one end of it, but the weight of it still nearly pulled the little girl off her feet.

"Follow me," he said, gently. She watched in amazement as he took his own staff, sweeping it in a semi-circular arc, and made it _sing, _icicles blooming out of the ground beneath them.

She tried to do the same, but bit her lip in frustration as she nearly plunged the staff into the ground, the few blue sparks of magic dying as it hit the floor.

Torrin shook his head, stooping to pick up the staff and hand it to her. She took it, small hands only just encircling it, and smiled at him gratefully. Despite her failure and his own exasperation, he couldn't help but offer her a smile in return.

Dragging her staff - which is larger than her - along the floor, she half-hobbled back to her dormitory, uttering the first curse she'd ever learned (even at nine, Anders was a bad influence) at her own lack of talent.

Entering the dormitory, which was empty - she was kept behind for extra practice, everyone else was at dinner - she leant her staff on the bedside table. She remembered the arc, the ice, and something stirred in her shoulder, cold growing and sliding down her arm. She moved her hands in the same semi-arc, and icicles appeared, the temperature in the room dropping and the sound of something she couldn't - still can't - quite name rising in the air.

Astonished at this new-found power, laughing with joy, she carried on the motion, again and again, watching as ice appeared and objects froze.

As the apprentices ate in the hall, oblivious, chattering about what they could do with their new staves, Morgana danced.

* * *

><p>She remembers when Lily handed her the dagger, the one she is carrying now, after watching her struggle with a staff and taking pity.<p>

She frowned at the initiate. "I thought those of the Chantry were meant to be forgiving and merciful."

There was the barest hint of a smile at the corner of Lily's mouth. "To a point, Morgana."

She weighed it in her hands, the steel sharp and cold in her hands after the soft, slightly rotting wood of a staff, and it felt... more comfortable, somehow. It was strange to wield such a small object after the unwieldiness of a staff, but once her fist clenched around the handle, something changed.

"Ana?" Jowan's panicked voice brought her back to the cellar, his nickname for her making her heart clench, as she remembered why they were there. He was leaving, and she would be alone.

As the sentinel approached, she blinded it with an arcane bolt, plunging the dagger into the plate, hearing the scrape and clang of metal against metal. The dagger sang the way her magic did. Her movements were clumsy, but they were enough - the three of them took it down, and they moved on. Towards freedom.

* * *

><p>Snapping herself back to the present, denying to herself the sting behind her eyes and the ache in her chest, she looks to the templar at her side - as they have always been, throughout her life, she thinks, trying not to let her lip curl - with a mixture of curiosity and hatred for who, what, he is.<p>

There is also disappointment, of course. She had warmed to him fast, his slightly skewed sense of humour - similar to her own, she thinks sadly - a ray of non-pompous light in a place and time full of misery. It caught her off-guard.

Of course, _he _won't be off-guard. Now he knows what she is, she will no longer be a person, an equal, but a danger. The friend she thought she might have found is lost to her. He is making light of it, trying to provoke conversation from her, but he is just one more prison guard, even if the prison itself has changed.

They pretend not to watch each other out of the corner of their eyes.


	5. Swooping

_Morrigan's first impression of our "noble" Wardens._

**Swooping**

**Morrigan**

The small party catch her attention when they enter the Wilds.

There are four of them, two fair-haired and two dark. Three of them are clad in armour, but the blue of apprentice's robes - the mark of another of the Chantry's prisoners - draws her eye to the mage. The mage who is wielding a _dagger,_ and, even Harrowed, is still in the clothes of an apprentice? She shakes her head. An... _odd _party, certainly.

The other fair-haired one walks with the simple confidence of one who does not know enough about danger, rather than one who is trying to be brave - stupidity, not courage. He has given up now on making the idiotic comments - attempts at conversation? - to the mage, who seems to be - very sensibly - not rising to them, her responses always short and polite enough, but with something behind them she can't quite identify. He is carrying a templar's shield - his own? Ah - a lyrium-addled idiot, then.

The darker, more lithe one is making a joke that is causing the fourth, bumbling man to turn red.

She considers helping them when the first darkspawn come, but decides against it, simply watching, unattached to the situation, trying to form her own theories about why they are there.

The mage (and seeing her fight, it is certain that she _is _a mage) uses a combination of spells and her dagger. The spells she weaves together as if she was born with the ability - and, indeed, she was; her dagger she uses more clumsily, but there is potential there that training can hone.

She thinks the fool notices this, too; after trying twice to correct her while they fight off the tainted creatures, he finally becomes exasperated. "For Maker's sake, not like _that!_"

The mage turns to glare at him, a fireball from her outstretched hands turning a hurlock to ash. Morrigan hates to admit it, but she is impressed. "How would _you _use it, then?_" _It is the first time the mage has spoken to the fool and shown feeling in her words.

He takes the dagger from her, seeming truly angry - and perhaps a little hurt - for the first time, handing her his sword - which she is too surprised not to take - and quickly dispatches three darkspawn, his movements swifter and more brutal, swapping their weapons around again afterwards. "Like that," he says, simply. He turns back to the other two recruits, giving them what no-one could honestly call a smile. "_More _tainted creatures and threats of death? Anyone? No takers. Why am I not surprised?" He strides onwards, the other three rushing to keep up with him.

Morrigan follows, unseen.


	6. Controlled

_This is a companion piece to _Control_. Reading that is __**really**__ recommended, to the point where I debated with myself whether to just put it in here, but I didn't want to repeat myself._

**Controlled**

**Morgana**

_The night after the battle. On the way to Lothering_

When he finally loses his temper, she surprises herself by not blaming him. At all. As much as she has tried to tell herself that he is a templar, that he is irrational and doesn't view her as _human_, she has watched his pain, watched him lose those he has loved so dearly, and keeping up this facade of uncaring anger is _exhausting_. She has watched him carefully since she met him, and when she saw the solitary tear he let slide down his face, by accident, in her sight, it went against everything she knew about the templars - strong, stoic, faceless. Suits of armour, never flawed men.

He turns to her. "So, what exactly is it about me you find so repulsive?" She reminds herself that he has just lost comrades and friends - a lot can be forgiven.

He shakes his head, continuing, "I haven't said one _word _against you since I've met you, but how you can be so... so_ unfeeling _after seeing _that - " _He gestures in the direction of Ostagar, now far away.

She understands what he is saying, but she is angry at the accusation, and certainly not numb - that is what makes her raise her voice. "I've known plenty of friends _die_ - mainly because of the Chantry's wrath, _templar. _And I am not _unfeeling. _I've been a Warden for a _day_._"_ Now, though she hates to admit it, there may be tears in her eyes. "A _day._ How can you expect me to mourn those I never knew?"

"Ah, so _that's _it. I told you - I never actually _was _a templar. You're letting your own _prejudices_ blind you!"

"They're not prejudices - they're how I was treated! The templars hated us! They dragged us to the Tower against our will!"

He stands. "_I _am _not_ a templar! _I_ never wanted to go to the _Chantry!_ I was taken when I was ten years old, because there was no-one else!"

She has to admit, she is taken aback. Templars don't _volunteer?_

She shouts at him about the Harrowing, about Tranquility.

He counters with words about losing the few friends he had to lyrium addiction. "If you'd watched them scrabble in _the dirt _for _one, lousy vial_..."

She talks about being locked in the Tower.

He agrees about how terrible it is to be imprisoned, countering with how he was locked in the Chantry and how Duncan "rescued" him.

She realises, after a while, that there are no arguments left, and strides off, needing to think, his resentful eyes on her back. She has been arguing for the sake of being a mage. Her words feel... empty, hollow. She is angry at what he _could have_ been, not who he _is_.

She'd heard about the lyrium, but it was a Chantry secret, just a rumour...

She always assumed _she _was the only one controlled by the Chantry. With the way she has treated him... she isn't sure she can blame him for shouting at her. Yet, he has still had a Chantry upbringing, will still probably smite her whenever he can...

She remembers seeing Loghain's men retreat, remembers the horror her fellow Warden - now the only other Warden - had in his eyes, and she cannot bring herself to care. He has lost almost everything he had, and they are in the middle of a _Blight. _Now is the time for _unity, _not arguments. Besides...

... The way he was treated sounds frighteningly familiar.

She doesn't want to argue anymore. She steels herself to apologise, wondering how she will drag the words out. He tenses as she sits beside him, staring into the fire and refusing to meet her eye, but she offers him a smile. It is slightly broken, with much loss behind it, but it is a start.

It's all she has to give.


	7. Lothering

**Lothering**

**Alistair**

The touch on his arm is light, but he still jumps - it's been placed precisely between the plates on his armour, so that he will feel it.

He can't quite explain it, but something... softened in her when she gave him that smile, and, with darkness, death, and a Blight hanging over them, still - for some stupid reason - he wanted to return it.

They came to Lothering to get supplies - along the way they seem to have acquired a mildly insane Chantry sister and a giant. Of course, Morgana has barely batted an eyelid at any of _that_.

Her voice is quiet - it's the first time she's spoken to him since she apologised after that screaming row about their respective terrible childhoods - and it sounds a little like she's having to force the words out. "Can you... help me, please?"

Supplies are scarce in a town so ravaged by the Blight, but they've managed to pick up plenty of weapons, if only through killing their owners, and, through the means of three of them and two backpacks, managed to keep carrying them.

He looks back to where Leliana and Morrigan are sitting - no doubt having an argument about something Chantry-related - before following her as she walks to and sits down on a grassy slope. He debates with himself before sitting next to her. "Soo... what do you need my help with?"

She gestures to his pack while taking off her own - he gives it to her, and she empties both on the ground, turning to him. Her speech is awkward, as if she's feeling her way through the conversation, afraid to put a foot wrong. "I just... needed to sort through this. Give everyone a weapon."

"And you're asking _me_ about this?"

She shrugs. "You're a warrior. You know about swords. And, well, Sten..."

"Not exactly approachable, is he?" he chips in. She actually _respects his opinion_ on something? He tries not to be too surprised. That, and the fact that this is the longest thing she's said to him since their first conversation about standing in a circle and holding hands to defeat the darkspawn, before she heard of his background and clamped down on any feelings but resentment towards him.

They sort through them, and he notices that she puts all the staves to one side with a murmur of "Morrigan". He frowns. "Wait... what are _you _wielding?_"_

She picks up a sword and eyes it speculatively. He adds, "But... you're a _mage_. And there are plenty of good staves - "

She carries on holding the sword. "Not... sharp enough. Can't stab people with a bloody branch. Besides..." She looks to the horizon, mumbling something that sounds distinctly like, "...A reminder."

She adds, "That's why you're here."

_Ah. _He knew there had to be _something. _She makes true eye contact with him since that moment by the fire. "Alistair..." Not _templar, _spat between clenched teeth? Wow. That's new.

"... Will you teach me to use a sword?"


	8. Flames

**Flames**

**Leliana**

Lothering is burning.

There is nothing she can do but watch. They are too far away to hear the screams, to see exactly _who _is dying, but she can't help but guess.

A single tear slides down her cheek - genuine, because she doesn't have to lie about her emotions anymore, doesn't have to summon up crocodile tears. That life is behind her.

If the horde had been defeated at Ostagar, if the Blight hadn't advanced, this might have been a home for her once - a place to live out the rest of her life as a sister in peace and tranquility, without that beautiful smile and those sharp words hounding her.

The locals had even warmed to her - of course, the accent and years of Loghain being Ferelden's most respected general had delayed that, but after a while she stopped being "the Orlesian" in harsh tones and started being "the dreamy little foreign girl" in slightly affectionate ones. That was the persona she decided suited needs best; after all, it is true - years of not having to be cold or hard have allowed her to find a sweeter side of herself, to remember the shoe obsession nurtured over years under... her master. She refuses to think of her name, even in the privacy of her own head.

She must put all of this behind her, of course - it is her duty, her mission, to stop this Blight, stop the spread of the darkness along this wonderful land, her adopted homeland.

At what cost?

She turns back to the camp. They are... an odd assortment, certainly: the mage who has a dagger and seems to be searching for armour; the louder one, still young, who hides behind humour and sarcasm; the unspeaking giant who was locked up in Lothering; and finally, the witch, with a sharp tongue, a shrewd mind, and, it seems, absolutely _no _idea what life is like outside her native Wilds.

There is a hissed "_Ow!"_ from the man, who seems to be sucking his finger, as if from a small wound; seeing the flash of red and green as he tries to manoeuvre something into his pack, as if it might break or disintegrate if he isn't careful, a theory occurs to her: from a thorn, perhaps?

Remembering her dream, she turns back towards the village.

She watches the flames.


	9. A Memory: Alistair

**A Memory**

**Alistair**

His first thought was that she was pretty. _Really _pretty. Even as a ten-year-old, he could spot a pretty girl.

He'd run here after being screeched at yet _again _by the Revered Mother, hiding in some of the hedges. His older self would come to say that the Mother "attempted to both deafen and depress me by the age of twelve. Go to give her credit, really."

Now there seemed to be a very pretty girl about his own age crouched on the other side of the Chantry fence, smiling at him. With cheese. _Cheese. _This day was rapidly going from dreadful to wonderful in a very short space of time.

Well, since she was sure... He cautiously took a piece, and she frowned when she saw the state of his hands - red raw. She opened her mouth to ask, and he explained, "From... from the pots. Soap."

She nodded, and he asked, "Your name?"

"Merra," was the slightly shy reply, and he answered her own question with, "Alistair." Well, it _was _his name; what else would he have said? No matter _what_ the Revered Mother said, he was, by nature, a very honest boy.

_Too _honest, sometimes - he was beaten to within an inch of his life by the old witch when he asked if he could call her Carol.

He was just about to ask what sort of cheese it was - not that he would have known, they only had one sort of cheese in the Chantry and he swore sometimes that it was _grey_ - when a rough pair of arms grabbed him round the waist. "_Got the bastard!"_ came the loud call, from one of the templars to his friends, no doubt. Andraste's knickers, it was _always _"the bastard", never "Alistair". He _had _a name - why didn't they use it?

He already knew from months of escape attempts and hiding in various different places that struggling would be useless - they were bigger, stronger and downright _scarier _- so all he could do was wave apologetically with a small smile just for Merra as he was dragged back to the Chantry, to another beating. He managed to mouth "thank you for the cheese" before he was dragged through the hedge backwards, leaves and branches catching in still-bright-blond hair.

Before the leaves blocked his vision, he could have sworn he saw a tear trickle down her cheek as she waved back.


	10. Ignorance

_The__ nightmares conversation will come up, but it seemed like the relationship between the two Wardens needed to be built up before it could be had properly and make sense - at least, the way I'm going to write it. So here is a sort of... prelude, if you like._**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Ignorance<strong>

**Alistair**

Ignorance is bliss, or so they say.

He only hears her screaming after he wakes up from a nightmare of his own - he had mainly learnt to block them out, but the Blight and the archdemon are bringing them back, and he wakes sweating and in absolute terror. He remembers the time after he had just Joined, when the dreams were at their peak - it was _terrible._

He'd like nothing more than to comfort her, explain things, but she will just push him away - her pride and her hatred of templars demands it, he's sure - and after losing all the others and having such an _insane _couple of days, he's really not sure he could take it.

He can't just _leave _her like that, though. It seems... _wrong,_ somehow.

Remembering that his appetite was at its peak also, he rummages around in his pack, finding some of their meagre supplies - he still has some bread left over from Lothering. Putting it onto some fabric and leaving it at the entrance to her tent, he moves around to the side of the canvas.

She is still deep in nightmares. Sticking a foot out, he kicks the tentpole, hard, and then sprints back to his own bedroll so that she can pretend nothing has happened in the morning, hearing her yell of surprise behind him as the tent falls on her.

It's woken her up, and it will only take a few minutes to right the tent.

He tries to sleep, praying he's done the right thing.


	11. Lullaby

_I don't know if the backstory here is canon; I'm going on what I most often read in fanfic, and partly making it up._

_Thanks for reading my rambling... *Ahem* ... I mean shorts.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Lullaby<strong>

**Morgana**

Her childhood, most of her adult life - both have taught her to expect preachiness and prejudice from those of the Chantry.

She sits somewhere between the two campfires, sneaking glances at the red-haired sister, daggers strapped to her back.

She remembers Lily, a woman who was as fervent in her beliefs as Morgana was a heathen, but also had - and returned - the love of a mage. She also had a dagger and a mace tucked under her robes - not as forgiving or preachy as she might have seemed. Morgana sighs, remembering Lily's awful sentence: Aeonar, the mages' prison_ - _a a place of nightmares and rot. She pushes down the guilt and the what-ifs that rise inside her.

Then there is Alistair, the Chantry-raised man and nearly templar, who seems confusingly... _human._

She wonders what has happened to her beliefs that most in the Chantry were bigots - this world outside the stone walls of the Tower is bloody _confusing, _and every time she thinks she understands a rule, has a leg to stand on, it changes, or the rug is pulled from beneath her feet.

The sister - Leliana, was it? - is humming a tune, simple and plaintive, and Morgana remembers Lothering burning, the barely-concealed pain in the other woman's eyes. It takes her a couple of minutes to remember where she has heard it before, and when she does, the memory briefly knocks the breath out of her.

* * *

><p>As she sat in the Tower's library, devouring books about the outside world she'd never see, in the quieter moments, the darkness just before the dawn, she would occasionally hear the tune. Lower, but with the same pain in every note. Even more rarely, she'd abandon the book she was reading and simply sit and listen, wondering at what the person was thinking, letting its simplicity and its sound wash through the quietness and the stillness, letting long-denied memories come to the surface.<p>

She was listening as usual, when a new sound threaded itself through the song - _words. _Incredibly quiet ones, the sound of someone singing to themselves. The voice was painfully familiar, and in that instant, she _had _to know if her suspicions were correct, and she began to creep round the bookshelves.

They were. Anders - light-hearted, mischief-making, couldn't-stay-still-for-a-minute Anders, who never went in the library and _certainly _didn't sing - took a few seconds to notice her, and when he did, abruptly stopped.

When she asked what the song was, he eventually admitted that it was something his mother used to sing to him, and he in turn learned and used to sing to his young sister. It was the only thing that would ever get her to sleep, he said, and he smiled at the memory, the smile dropping from his face as he explained the rest of it. He was twelve when he was taken - old enough to remember his family. He had no idea where his mother was, and the templars that had dragged him away had killed his sister in the process; he had no-one, but he told her this without a tear or a shake in his voice.

The next morning, he made his fourth escape attempt, and was soon enough dragged back to the Tower. No matter how many times or how late she sat in the library, she never heard the song again.

* * *

><p>Leliana looks up at the sound of her footsteps, and seems surprised when Morgana sits beside her on the ground, but recovers quickly, throwing her a beaming smile to cover the sadness that was in her face before. When Morgana asks her what the song is, she explains, curious as to why she's asking.<p>

"I..." She considers explaining, but it is not her secret or her story to give, so she simply says, "...Heard it from a friend."


	12. Matutinus

_It's often mentioned in fanfic that Alistair is an early riser, and I just __**had**__ to write this because I loved this imagery and the scene that popped into my head so much. After all, one of the main reasons I'm writing this is to explore the little in-between moments, when the fighting and the "Grey Warden-ing" stops, and we see a glimpse of the characters' humanity (OK, there's Sten and Zevran, but you know what I mean...). My favourite example of that is camp, where they have time to let their guard down and just... **be.**_

_So: a glimpse of morning routine. Wondering whether to do it for other characters now and again, but I'm not sure yet.  
><em>

_{Matutinus = Of / belonging to the morning. I know almost nothing of Latin, but the word seemed too appropriate to pass up on. Forgive me if I'm murdering the language.}_

* * *

><p><strong>Matutinus<strong>

**Alistair**

He wakes up at almost exactly the same time every morning, to the _minute_.

Years of Chantry training refuse to allow him to do otherwise - he half expects to hear a bell and a call to prayer. The camp, however, is silent, his companions still asleep on their bedrolls.

Groaning, he slowly uncurls from his sleeping state and ducks out of his tent bleary-eyed and barefooted, clothed in only the pair of breeches he slept in. There is still residual blue from the dawn.

He is not in the Chantry. Prayer can be skipped.

To business. He runs through each of the stretches, feeling muscles come undone and joints _pop _in a surprisingly satisfying way. He clears his mind, letting his muscle memory take over, more than a decade of rituals and routines guiding him without conscious thought through the motions - it is a comfortable feeling, just... letting go. Relaxing, he supposes.

All the while, his breathing is steady - _in. Out. _Move._ In. Out._

Opening his eyes, snapping back to normality and slipping on the worn leather gauntlets he has had since he was sixteen, he begins to practise his sword work - essential, if he wants to teach it to Morgana. He uses the same principles he has been taught since he was a child - the breathing, the pace, the motion.

_Easy as breathing, _he used to say to his fellow initiates, and they'd groan at the terrible joke. The memory brings a smile to his face. He goes through the names of the manoeuvres in his head, making sure his grip is correct.

He looks up. The blue is washing out of the sky. Sheathing his sword and laying it next to his tent, he finds a likely-looking tree for the mental exercise, sits under it, and begins the process of clearing all conscious thought again, this time unmoving.

* * *

><p>He comes back to himself, hearing the sound of voices a couple of feet away. The meditation must have taken longer than he'd thought. He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, mildly curious as to what the conversation is about.<p>

One is Orlesian-accented. "What is he doing? Not that I do not appreciate the view, but it looks... most curious."

He hears the clank of iron against iron - two pots? - and the quieter voice of Morgana, saying more words than _he's _ever heard from her to the red-haired sister. He thought she was meant to be Chantry-phobic? "There. Soup. He's meditating. The templars do it in the Tower." The bitterness has crept into her voice again. "Helps build mental fortitude." There is a kind of a grudging respect there now. "Actually, it's not a bad habit to get into. I... tried it a few times. Difficult, but it worked. Takes incredible discipline, and I was impatient. You didn't see them do it in the Chantry?" Pushing back his hurt that she's only said about twenty words to him since they've met and is so quick to open up to another stranger, a thought occurs to him - she's _meditated? _This mage is... _weird, _to put it mildly_.  
><em>

He opens his eyes to blinding daylight and finds a small plate of a soup, stew... _thing_ with a wild mushroom sticking out of it in front of him. It has been carried carefully to where he was sitting, not a drop spilled, as if someone didn't want to interrupt him.

He looks up to see the two women sitting by the remains of the main campfire (not the witch's), and remembers that it was Morgana's turn to dish out breakfast this morning. She made and brought over the stew?

The redhead gives him a bright smile, and remembering her earlier comment, he dives past her into his tent to retrieve a shirt, embarrassed, then, taking the soup - trying not to spill most of it - he sits with them. He looks to Morgana, who he is now certain was responsible for the delivery of his breakfast, and offers her a small smile of thanks.

She nods her head slightly, returning to her stew.


	13. Armour

_This is becoming a bit more multi-chapter than intended - it's running away with me a little._

_Anyone wondering about the timescale: DA:O takes place over a year, and days of that must be spent hiking from one location to the other; this is on the way to Redcliffe from Lothering, pretty much as it was in my playthrough._

_Fade Striders are battlemage boots._

_Another Arcane Warrior segment, and, I think, where our two Wardens start to build their particular bridge - enjoy.  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Armour<strong>

**Morgana**

They are on the road when she sees it. Motioning to the others to carry on, she picks the silver plates up from the dirt. She smiles as she finds it is a full set of splintmail - a lucky find. Who knows where it has come from? Certainly not her, but they all take what they can find on this mission.

It is old, has obviously been worn before, but it also has the look of being well cared-for - it has been very dulled, and there is a mark where the sword has gone through the leather, but it is perfectly usable. Tucking it under her arm (inhaling slightly at the weight of the metal), she runs to catch up with the others - not easy in a mage's skirt, and she thinks she really needs to get some breeches, she's always hated dresses - clanking as she goes and feeling ever so slightly ridiculous. Catching sight of the armour - and her struggles - Alistair (_no, the nearly-templar,_ the oppressed-mage part of her head corrects her. _No, __**Alistair**_, she re-corrects it, putting it to the back of her mind) offers to help her with it. Her pride won't allow it, but after an hour the journey seems impossible and the armour is steadily slipping from her arms. Just as it is about to fall from them completely, strong hands catch it, and before she knows what in the Void is going on, she has had half the armour relieved from her and he is walking in step beside her, smiling at her. _Smiling? _She wonders if it's because of the soup.

She can't help thinking that he _has_ been rather decent, some might even say kind, to her, even for an almost-templar. She reminds herself that mages and templars can't be friends, but the argument sounds more hollow every time she uses it. There is also the fact that Alistair _isn't_ actually a _templar.._.

She mumbles a "thank you" and it seems to be enough for him. He nods, returning his eyes to the road ahead of them with the words, "Well, veridium can be rather..."

"Heavy," she finishes for him simply, and he looks at her in surprise.

* * *

><p>When they arrive at camp, she uses a few bushes to change behind, slipping into a wool tunic they found in Lothering, then the splintmail, and dumping the tattered blue apprentice's robes - she never wore the mage's robes when she received them: it felt too much like... acceptance, she supposes, like she was condemning herself to a life inside stone walls. Besides, mustard yellow isn't exactly her colour - on the ground.<p>

Even Morrigan looks slightly taken aback when she re-appears. "'Tis not the clothing of a _mage..."_

Alistair looks her over, flushing at the unpleasant connotations of that action his mind has undoubtedly managed to conjure up, then nods approvingly, before stopping. "Oh, wait. You _might _want to buckle that..." When she can't find it, not being able to help himself, he buckles it for her after watching her struggle and taking pity, seemingly surprised at being allowed in her personal space; a plate at the back of her shoulder is finally secured into place. Bright red, he can barely look her in the eye when he steps away, and she suppresses a laugh. She understands his awkwardness, though, and says - properly, this time - "Thank you, Alistair." The corner of her mouth twitches.

If a man could jump at a _smile_... He recovers and returns it quickly. "Any time. Well, not _any _time, you'll need to learn to buckle up your own armour..." Something occurs to him. "If you were serious about starting your training, it would be good to start once you've broken it in."

Even with the weight of the plates, it is fairly comfortable, and it fits her surprisingly closely - as she walks to her tent to find her old Fade Striders, she smiles.

She has found her armour.


	14. Dogs

_I am going on vacation for a week from tomorrow, and, due to the laws of physics - and the fact that it's a desktop - my computer must stay on my desk while I go gallivanting off to the middle of nowhere. Therefore, expect to hear nothing of me for said week. Very, very sorry for the inconvenience. No, really - I enjoy writing for people._

_Rambling: Interestingly, it's been mentioned that a lot of my stories in _Armour _revolve around favours and doing right by others, which is true. I think it's because these days, the cynical part of me sometimes thinks manners have been forgotten, and sometimes it's the little things like someone holding a door open or giving me a smile that can leave me with a spring in my step. Maybe it's the same for Morgana._

_Writing _Harrowed_ made me really sad for a while, so here's a fairly angst-free short. Enjoy!  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Dogs<strong>

**Alistair**

He's been tense all day, and has caught Morgana throwing him cautious glances from time to time; maybe it's the fact that the smile has dropped from his face and his hand has strayed regularly to his sword, as if expecting something to jump out at them, while they've been walking. Redcliffe - and with it, the issue of his, er, _parentage_ - is edging ever closer. It'll be in sight soon, and he's surprised to find he's gritting his teeth. It takes him a moment to consciously unclench his jaw.

He's startled out of his unpleasant reverie by the sound of a feminine throat clearing close by. He looks to the side (and not _that_ far down; he notes to himself that she's not particularly short) to see that Morgana has fallen back and is walking next to him, clanking slightly in her new splintmail (which she seems determined to show off at every possible opportunity without ever admitting she's doing it. The thought makes him smile for the first time in hours). "Er, Alistair..." Her voice is quiet, and he suddenly realises that he's still not quite used to her using his name yet. "Since we're on the way - you said that you were raised by this Arl Eamon?" She sees his surprise that he's suddenly worth talking to, and there's another of her hinted not-quite-smiles, the ones she's so good at, that leave him feeling unsure and a little bit ridiculous. "Yes, I _do_ actually listen to you occasionally."

He stumbles a little. "Did I say that? I meant that I was raised by dogs. Wild, slobbering dogs from the Anderfels - "

"That explains the smell."

"Morgana..." The comment is either really offensive or really funny, and he settles for funny. He's not the only one looking surprised - it's the first time _he's_ used _her_ name, and, considering they've been travelling together for days, the realisation makes him uncomfortable. He feels like he should say something, but instead settles for telling her the story of his less-than-pleasant childhood.

He looks at her - Andraste's flaming sword, she's doing that _listening_ thing again - and, just for a moment, she's the shy, smiling apprentice he met at Ostagar, before the Chantry got in the way, who laughed at his jokes and wanted to know what a mabari was.

Maybe there's hope yet.


	15. Prince

_*Waves* I'm back, with a long short (oxymoron?). Hello again! Vacation over._

_Some fight-scene practice for me here. Don't hate me - there will be emotional depth later. Once the zombies are dealt with. Maybe at the same time. _

_I write healing as the mage knowing where injuries are by feeling a little sympathetic pain (only a tiny bit). Healing feels altruistic to me - it makes sense that they'd go through pain to heal others, even if it's just a fraction of the others'._

_Jowan will __**not **__be skipped, but for now, the focus is on the whole "bastard prince" announcement._

* * *

><p><strong>Prince<strong>

**Morgana**

She barely has time to think about what he has just told her as they wade through the dead walking - Leliana impales one through the back with both daggers, kicking it off them and giving her a bright smile, her pretty blue eyes lighting up, like she is used to - _enjoys? _- this. Like it is a game. Morgana wonders why she finds that so disturbing.

Morrigan is leaving a trail of chaos, "life" - _unlife?_ - drained and fireballed corpses in her wake.

Alistair? He is at her back, somehow seeming to keep half an eye on her and prevent any of her frequent missteps with her own dagger, taking the head off one corpse and knocking her out of the way of another's mace. She'd thought that Grey Wardens were the best of the best - she feels small and stupid beside her comrades, and, for the first time since Ostagar, she looks at him and imagines him as the senior ranking Warden, as he still is, the memory of him leading them confidently through the Wilds re-surfacing. It isn't hard.

Why does he let her lead?

She sees a glimpse of the answer when she hears his cry of pain.

She searches. The mana is there, comforting her. Flowing through her, alongside, in, her own blood, the warmth circulating. She tries to back out of the fighting a little, and ducks the clumsy swing of a sword-wielding corpse - Murdock skewers it; she gives him a nod of thanks - and she feels around a little, spreading the warmth of the magic outwards. Just like Anders taught her. She smiles. She feels the sympathetic ache around her hand almost instantly, and the smile fades. _Ah. A broken wrist. _Well, _that's _not good. She casts the healing spell, feeling the simultaneous warmth and coolness flowing out from her fingers, watching the glow fade and just managing to get out of the way of the corpse that swings a decaying fist at her. She has _got _to get better at this.

The ache in her ankle tugs her in a different direction - _Morrigan. Sprained._ Another spell.

Back to stabbing things - or trying to, at least...

Wait. There's something _else_. This isn't pain - she knows it instinctively - and her mana shies away from it, the warmth ebbing. Not magical? A regular _thrumming_ sound, almost tuneful, each one sounding like a fraction of a second of a song, in time with her heartbeat but _not _her heartbeat. And a feeling flowing through her, beside her own emotions, that she _knows _is not hers. _Gratitude? _What _is _this?

She is frightened, _truly _frightened, for the first time in days, so she does what she always does - turns to those she is with, who seem to have taken the brunt of the dead away from her.

Leliana takes the corpse that runs at her down, and she _tries _to return to the fighting, relying on fireballs and arcane bolts to get her through.

* * *

><p>He sits by his tent, flexing his nearly-healed wrist, catching her as she walks by. "I... forgot to thank you."<p>

She shakes her head. "I'm a mage - healing is like breathing to me. There's no need."

He smiles at her, cautiously, as though she might attack him, or as if he is trying a smile out for the first time. "All the same - thank you."

Just as cautiously, slightly unsure of herself in this smile-y new realm, she returns it, quickly becoming brisk so that her awkwardness won't take over. "It's not healed properly, anyway. It'll take days. Healing works better with touch - I can only give quick fixes when fighting." She sits beside him, taking his arm and ignoring his surprised intake of breath, slipping off one of his gauntlets and peering at it. "Do you ever _wash _these?" She looks it over, noting the dried blood and... "Alistair?" she asks, in serious tones.

"Morgana?" He can't help mimicking her.

"Is that _stew? _Maker's breath, you _eat _in these things?" All awkwardness, how little she knows him, is forgotten in the wake of her shock.

"Er... Maybe. Sometimes. Well, _yes_ - "

She shakes her head. He jumps a little as her fingers encircle - well, _nearly_ encircle - his wrist, and she can feel the warmth flowing from them. A moment later, she removes her hand, and he looks at his in slight shock, trying to explain: "I mean, they taught us what it is - manipulation of bone and skin through mana, natural healing sped up, all that, but... I've never actually been healed before. Huh."

It is her turn to look shocked, but she soon clamps down on it, turning awkward when she realises her informality, how much she has said to him. "Well, that's... odd." She stands up, and begins walking to her tent to rest. It is a long walk to the Circle of Magi. At the entrance, remembering his nervousness in their earlier conversation, his voice makes her turn back.

"Look... I'm sorry I didn't tell you before. About my father. I know I should have - "

She stops him. "I get the feeling we've had this conversation before. Possibly at the village gates?"

"I know, but..."

"You're still 'just Alistair'. I... well, I can't say it changes my view of you at all, to be honest." She ducks into her tent to end the conversation, which has turned uncomfortable.

As she settles down on her bedroll, ready for a night full of nightmares and dragons and best-friends-turned-maleficarum, praying that her tent will - as it seems to mysteriously do at regular intervals - "fall" on top of her again, she wonders...

What exactly _is _that view?


	16. Confusion

_Camp segment!_

* * *

><p><strong>Confusion<strong>

**Leliana**

She sits watching the fire, listening to the muffled swearing and clanging coming from Morgana's nearly-knocked-over tent.

Alistair's eyebrows are so high that they have nearly shot off his face, raising even more at some of the detailed descriptions of Andraste's anatomy. "She's trying to remove _splintmail _in there?"

Leliana takes another look at the tent. "While lying down, it seems."

"That's... _wow." _

She stands, walking to the mage's tent. "Morgana? Perhaps you require a little help?"

"Yes... please," comes the panting reply.

"Why must you do this every night?' she asks the reddened Warden. "If it is because of privacy, just use the tree line over there."

"I... ah. Thank you." She begins to hop in a one-booted, rather undignified way over to the trees. "I'd change in camp, but I think Alistair would _explode _if I did that."

Leliana lets out a laugh and waves to the woman she is beginning to consider a friend, sitting back next to the campfire.

"Why does she always talk to _you?_"

She looks up, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"You two are all girls together and talking about nugs, but she's smiled at me _twice_."

"Ah."

"It's _confusing. _One minute it's all, 'Die, evil templar!' and the next it's, 'thank you, Alistair' and 'I understand why you didn't tell us your father was a king'. Oh, and joking about stew. Don't forget stew."

Leliana shrugs. "I... cannot answer that very usefully, Alistair, since I have no idea. But I do not think she hates you."

"You don't?" The half-question is at once hopeful and cautious - he is approaching this conversation the way one approaches a boiling kettle.

"No." She shakes her head, with the hint of a laugh, and then there is a thoughtful silence.

Until Morgana arrives in the wool tunic she found in Lothering, clanking and swearing as she carries her armour.


	17. Guilt

_Guilt, A.K.A: The Jowan Chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>Guilt<strong>

**Morgana**

She can't sleep.

Will she _ever_ be able to sleep?

She is used to the confusing nightmares; they frighten her, and leave her screaming, praying she will wake up so she can escape from that terrible and wonderfully gentle song, but they are not as bad as the guilt. The heavy, miserable, heartbreaking _guilt._

Every time she closes her eyes, the image of Jowan, her best friend, looking to her through the bars flashes onto the inside of her eyelids. That and the image of the normally almost _reasonable _Alistair recoiling with an exclamation of "Blood magic!", his inner templar rearing in him just as her inner mage wanted to spit at him to back down. Back down, and be gone.

What frightened her most was that, while she was thinking all this, in the middle of the righteous mage hate she remembered who he was, what had happened to him, and her anger... well, it all sort of... _deflated_. What is _happening _to her?

It's hard to hate a templar who seems so... un-templarish. Maybe he _is, _as he puts it, "just Alistair". Not templar, not prince, not even Grey Warden - just a man in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She tries to shake these thoughts out of her head - they're dangerous. In the words of Anders, "Let a bucket-head get too close, and he'll be smiting you to Orlais and back before you can say 'lyrium'."

Sleep finally settles like a fog over her mind, and she expects to see the usual horrible visions, visions which only she seems to see. There is no giant, tainted dragon, however; instead, there is a dream, made of half-memories and endless guilt.

* * *

><p>The Tower library. A shaggy-haired little boy and a girl in apprentice's robes that will never fit her. She asks him if she hears the song drifting through the library: it is soft and haunting, a thousand different voices singing in unison, whispers echoing beneath its surface that are too faint for her to make out the words. She wonders if she is imagining it; she finds she isn't. She needs to find its source, she decides. It <em>calls<em> her, pushes her onwards - she takes the boy's hand and they walk through the library towards its source, him smiling trustingly at her, encouraging her.

Before she knows what is happening, her voice has joined the others, twisting through the song, the song that's now in her _blood_, and the boy - Jowan, she suddenly remembers - looks frightened.

The darkspawn are all around them now, ripping, shredding, tearing, _screeching, _and she knows that this is how they will die.

There is suddenly a cry of pain behind her and in a haze of red, the darkspawn around her are ripped apart, screaming in horror instead of triumph.

She looks behind her to see the _man, _still shaggy-haired, giving her a half-smile of reassurance that doesn't work while trying to stand and stem the flow of the blood from the self-made gash on the inside of his elbow. She smiles back to him, herself now a woman, and walks to stand by him; together, protecting each other, as always.

She sees the smite as a flash, sees her friend buckle and drop to the floor, and then instead of darkspawn it is templars swarming around them. She waits for a smite of her own, but they ignore her, and as she screams while they drag him away, she swears she hears the dragon _laughing_.

* * *

><p>She wakes to a faceful of canvas, the tent having collapsed on her <em>again<em>, and is sure she hears running footsteps. By the time she has got the tent off her and gone to get the bread she knows will be outside it, they are gone.

Chewing it, determinedly ignoring the tears running down her face and salting the food, she hears the crackling of turning pages, a candle illuminating Alistair's tent and the silhouette of his still-sitting form. The templar _reads? _

She shrugs. She guesses he can't sleep either, and she wonders why.

She looks into the campfire's dying flames, telling herself she sees nothing in them.


	18. Troubles

_Finally - some Morrigan P.O.V! Some more camp stuff, too; there will be something happening soon, don't worry._

* * *

><p><strong>Troubles<strong>

**Morrigan**

The dreams were to be expected, Flemeth told her. But as she listens to the screams of one Grey Warden, and wonders how the other, the fool, can fight when he spends most of the night waking up in the same state then getting up to do his ridiculous "exercises" so early in the morning, she realises that she had never expected it to be _this bad._

She didn't enter this strange little group expecting fights, but the idiot who had no respect for the Wilds seems to have taken an instant dislike to her - possibly because of her powers, she suspects. It doesn't help that for at least the first leg of the journey, he didn't seem to be able to see past his grief to the Blight at hand. She tells herself that it doesn't matter that he hates her, even if it will make things so much harder... She cuts off that unpleasant train of thought. Just one more easily-defeated templar.

The sister, another indoctrinated by the Chantry, seems not to think in the same way, though she is depressingly... _bubbly. _There is nothing wrong with friendliness - _anyone _can be friendly if they wish to - but the constant lack of peace - she swears the woman actually _bounces _occasionally when she talks - and her insistence that Ferelden smells like wet dog... Morrigan grits her teeth. That, and the fact that she seems to be trying to _convert _her. Before she knows it, she'll have her locked in a Tower, like the Circle.

The Circle, who don't _respect _their powers. They don't consider that even with their smites and their armour, with sufficient numbers the templars can be overwhelmed. Sometimes the more desperate ones resort to blood magic. She feels a twinge of sympathy - it's usually learned by a wet-behind-the-ears apprentice out of a book they've found shoved down the back of a shelf, hastily, and few can ever control it comfortably. They let it consume them instead of just being a useful resource, and the Chantry has one more excuse to persecute those with powers beyond their narrow-minded ken.

She shakes her head as another thought hits her.

Like Morgana.

She has often wanted to ask her about the Tower - she has never been inside, and their library is apparently the best in Ferelden. Also, she's not sure exactly _how _the mages are imprisoned; her mother has told her snatches, but it might be interesting to hear it from one of the Circle - but she's sure she'd just bite her head off.

Though she doesn't want to admit it, they actually have a lot in common - there are times when the other woman seems as confused by these ridiculous social "rules" and norms as she is. After all, being locked inside stone walls is hardly a basis for a healthy social life. She remembers the woman once asking her what life in the Wilds was like; when she mentioned baiting the templars, the woman's reaction was violently opposed, and she did not bring it up again.

All of this goes in her journal - she calls it her "grimoire", not wanting to sound like a ridiculous adolescent who keeps a diary, but there are... observations in there as well as magic - in her writing, which is mostly neat, occasionally turning spidery. Very like herself, she thinks, smiling at her little joke.

She looks up at the sound of Morgana thrashing around and crying out again, still deep in nightmares. She seems to be screaming a name - she doesn't quite catch it the first time, but the second time, she knows who it is.

"Jowan," she muses, wondering what Morgana was to him, and him to her.


	19. Chemical Bond

_An explanation for the weird little "that's not magic!" bit in "Prince". Wondered if anyone'd spot what it was._

_Right, so I'm working on some stuff that's plot-important in my headcanon, and I want to get it just right - that's why this update is late and short. Hopefully chap 20 should be out by tomorrow - if not, don't kill me, it won't be much longer._

* * *

><p><strong>Chemical Bond<strong>

**Alistair**

He's been feeling an odd jitteriness the nearer they get to the Tower, which he doesn't quite understand - though he certainly doesn't approve of all the Chantry's methods, and the lyrium and the drug-addled templars certainly make him nervous, he isn't a _mage_. He shouldn't be feeling like this, right?

Something occurs to him, and he closes his eyes and _listens. _Sure enough, along with the ever-present nearly-tuneful thrumming in his blood, there is... fear. Anger. Sadness?

He is half-sympathetic and half- wonderstruck when he looks over to Morgana. _Another one!_

The horrible, blank emptiness, of having so many other half-songs and emotions - which he'd eventually learnt to block out, but still occasionally called on in times of need, to remember his _family_ were around - snuffed out with the Wardens' death, being the only one, blood crying out to silence...

He realises she must have been a Warden long enough for the taint-sense to take effect.

He sneaks another look at her, wondering if she can sense him too - there are no visible signs; she is at her now-usual place, sitting fairly close to Leliana (she _moved,_ he realises with surprise) and frowning into the campfire, as if trying to find patterns in the flames. Or pictures - he remembers the sounds she makes at night in the throes of the dreams, and he shudders at what she might be seeing amongst the flickering.

Suddenly, she looks up, as if sensing his curiosity; maybe she _is._

He's caught between being overjoyed and slightly worried about her reaction to this chemical bond they now share.


	20. Teacher

_In which this interesting little plot point of the "sword lessons" progresses… Enjoy! _

_Warning: This, like _Matutinus,_ is one of my technically detailed chapters with plenty of BS. I should really stop doing 'em. Yep, I'm female, but I write about swords and training a lot._

* * *

><p><strong>Teacher<strong>

**Alistair**

She finally brings up her request again when they're about three-quarters of the way to the Tower. "I did mean it, you know."

He looks to her at his side, puzzled. "What?"

She seems to be doing that thing of trying to feel her way through their conversation. _Again._ It's almost enough to make him grit his teeth - he'd thought they were getting somewhere. "Would you teach me? Teach me swordwork?"

He's surprised she's actually decided to see it through - he has seen her efforts with the dagger, and while almost passable by now, she's going to need intense training to improve. He winces. She's a _mage_ - she wasn't designed for speed or strength, and he can't help worrying about how much it'll take out of her.

There's also the fact that he's always been the _pupil, _never the _teacher, _and the idea of this changing frightens him a little. "Er… _me?_ Are you sure? I'm pretty certain Leliana could teach you a few dagger tricks."

She shakes her head. "I'm not _fast._ I can't… backstab like that, and a dagger just doesn't make any impact." Her voice is a little quieter now, as if she's… cringing? "Also, I've see you fight, and you're… well, very good."

He almost wants to laugh at such a odd compliment, but after years of repeatedly being told he's incompetent by those of the Chantry, it comes as a pleasant surprise. "If you're sure…" is his uncertain, half-questioning reply.

She nods, and nothing more is said as they walk on. Morgana falls back to talk to Leliana about… shoes, or… nugs, or whatever they talk about.

* * *

><p>They enter a small village, Mertonshire, which seems to have some supplies, and he looks over the weapons with a surprisingly critical eye, wondering what will suit Morgana.<p>

He looks at her hands as she gesticulates wildly while negotiating with a villager, steering well away from the greatswords in the hope of _not _snapping her wrists on her first lesson - they seem frighteningly _thin._

He picks up a fairly simple longsword, weighing it in his hands and checking the blade - when he takes a look at the grip, it still seems pretty comfortable for a smaller hand than his; _pretty _comfortable - the calluses will still happen, and it won't be fun taking off her gauntlets for a while.

Speaking of gauntlets - hers aren't in the best state, actually. They seem to be half-falling apart, and are made of the kind of rough leather that suggests that they could only have been a farmer's - a smith would usually just refuse to work with material that low-quality.

For a minute, he wonders how he knows this, then, with a sardonic smile, he remembers that the Chantry raises their templars discerning.

He turns over what must be six pairs of them before settling on a pair from a light scale set. As he senses her curiosity about what he is doing, he pays quickly, with the money he's collected on his travels, and greets her.

* * *

><p>She's surprised when she sees what he is carrying. "But you have perfectly good gauntlets already… Oh." She trails off as he passes them to her, the action enough to render her speechless - a rare event, though she often <em>chooses <em>not to talk - for a moment, her eyes lighting up like a child's on Saturnalia morning. "Thank you."

He just offers her a smile and, "Don't mention it. You haven't seen the _sword _yet."

She has regained her composure, it seems, and regards him with just a hint of anxiety. "A sword as well? Will I be able to carry it?"

"That's what we're going to find out," he replies flippantly, ignoring the worry crinkling her brow.

* * *

><p>When they're back at camp, as she moves to go and change her splintmail, he calls to her, "Bright and early tomorrow, remember. Your lesson."<p>

She glares at him, and he realises that he'd forgotten just how terrible that glare was.

* * *

><p>Bright and early his <em>arse. <em>

It is early evening when they finally find a time and place.

The campfire reflects off the sword as he hands it gently to her, standing to her side and ready to help her and hopefully prevent injury. Her shoulders immediately slump as it nearly hits the floor. Maker's _breath_, it isn't even a _greatsword. _

She recovers quickly, manages to lift it a little way, but is still slumped.

Remembering his own training, he steps behind her and straightens her shoulders, ignoring her shocked little intake of breath as he does so. At least _she _isn't beaten if her posture is incorrect - templars don't look menacing enough for the mages with slumped shoulders, apparently.

"Bend your _knees_," he tells her.

She does, barely.

He shakes his head. "If you want to have usable arms in an hour, _trust me. _Bend your knees so you can take some of the weight onto them and your elbows as well as your shoulders. It'll help."

He thinks something changes in her, is triggered, at his words, and he's right - still trying to heft the sword, she tells him quietly, "You know who the last man was that asked me to trust him?"

He shakes his head, not sure what to say.

"Jowan," she replies, meeting his eyes, bending her knees and lifting the sword.

* * *

><p>So what if an hour later she's writhing around trying to reach all the right muscles to heal? She can lift a sword now, and she is ridiculously pleased about it, no matter how hard she tries to hide it.<p>

She's proud of the sword, too - she hasn't quite got the knack for polishing yet, which he'll have to teach her, he supposes, but she spends hours that night absentmindedly running a cloth along it while talking to Leliana, and when she sheathes it, it is done carefully, so as not to blunt the weapon.

He has to ask. "Why do you want to learn with a sword?"

She has become guarded again, but she lets a few words slip through, all the while staring into the campfire. "'It's easier. I... don't fight like them. Never will."

As he looks to the Tower of Magi in the distance, he thinks he has a distinct idea who "they" are.


	21. Wardens

_I know it's for practicality, but the whole "Warden" address really annoyed me when Morgana often had her fellow Warden standing right next to her._

**War-**_**dens**_

**Alistair**

He sighs as they give her the usual "Warden" address, taking an elbow and leaning against the nearest wall.

He nearly jumps up when he hears her reply. "War-_dens._ My colleague here is also a member of the Order." She appears to be gesturing to _him. Oh._

He looks at her in surprise, and she looks back at him with the barest hint of a smile. He's worth _acknowledging _now?

The man is very careful to make it plural; Alistair abruptly and belatedly realises that he's quite a tall, armoured man, with weapons, and a Grey Warden to boot. The merchant looks like he might _squeak._

"So, Wardens..."


	22. Night Watch

**Night watch**

**Morgana**

She moves her bedroll outside her tent for one night to take watch, now that there are enough of them, and she reminds herself that of _course_ she isn't scared, look how clean the air is, so clear and... untainted, but there will be no tent to be knocked over this time...

She continues to torture herself in this fashion as she moves the bedroll and her sword next to the fire, but is distracted for a moment as she takes her sheathed sword, trying not to smile. Since she still isn't used to lifting it, she's using a dagger on the field at the moment, and Alistair seems to entertain himself with giving her all sorts of exercises "to build muscle strength" that look _ridiculous. _It's hard to keep your dignity when you're sprawled on the ground doing _something _with your legs and your fellow Warden is trying hopelessly not to laugh.

She wonders when she started thinking of him as such. Her fellow Warden. The word "templar" hasn't been used for quite a while now. She shrugs, shaking her head at these thoughts, and he stares at the odd movement as he takes his own bedroll and places it at the other side of the fire.

"What are you - ?" she begins, frowning, but he cuts her off.

"Er... Secretly rehearsing the Remigold?"

She looks at him like he's insane - and, truth be told, for a moment, she wonders. "The dance with... the dresses... and the legs?" She has the image of him in a dress for a moment, and struggles not to laugh.

"Familiar with it, are you?" he says, lightly, as he gathers his own belongings and puts them next to the bedroll. "No, I'm here to keep watch. And... feed Brian." The dread laces through this last sentence quite obviously.

"I don't think he hates you," she says, and he looks for a moment as if he's reminded of something; she dismisses it. "He seems to trust you."

He shakes his head. "Until he tries to take my fingers off when I put any water near him. He's imprinted on _you_, he won't trust anyone else."

"Not true. There was a time when I was healing you and he managed to keep two hurlocks at bay single... pawedly?"

He looks at her, surprised, for a moment. Why?

"What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing important." With that, he wanders off to feed Brian, and Morgana winces, unsurprised, at the loud "_Ow!_" she hears a couple of minutes later.

When he arrives at the fire, she touches her hand to his before he can protest, healing his freshly-bleeding hand.

"Thank you," he says, and she looks up at him, puzzled.

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Thank me every time I heal you."

His words come out in an awkward rush. "Well, it's... you risk your life every time you do, and I know how much it drains your mana, and it just seemed... right."

She frowns, remembering when he basically rushed through an exact explanation of healing. "You _know _about mana?"

He rolls his eyes. "Templar training, remember?"

Something inside her tenses at the mention of it, the way the Chantry has overshadowed their lives; it is clear from his expression he's seen it and is ready to back away from the conversation, but she carefully relaxes, because he's never used his powers once, or backed away from her magic, and the man in front of her _is not a templar._

She can't help smiling at the realisation.

* * *

><p><em>You think that "die, templar!" is solved there? Nope. I enjoy this plotline too much, so this isn't quite wrapped up yet.<em>

_OK, I know I don't do multi-chapter, but this will be two shorts in about the same time-period. I'm just writing up the second now, and I wanted to keep it... well, short, which is why I divided it up._

_Ridiculous, I know, but has anyone actually explained what the Remigold **is**? I always have the image of it as a can-can, for some reason._

_Before you ask... Yes, Morgana's fearsome wardog is called Brian. Also before you ask, yes, the chapter title is a nod to karebear's outstanding piece, also called Night Watch. If anyone's reading this that hasn't read that... really, read it. A great example of Amell/Alistair done well, and the pre-cursor to let Me Be Your Shield (also worth taking a look at).  
><em>


	23. Bad dreams?

_A continuation of the chapter titled _Night Watch. _This was going to be tomorrow, but inspiration just struck, and, well... I just couldn't keep it to myself._

_I got the line about "like when I was sent to the Chantry" when talking about Duncan, and was surprised that, even from the beginning of the game, Alistair is quite openly sympathetic towards mages, even with his history._

_You know the drill: Game world, game lines, copyright BioWare, though we mostly have David Gaider to thank for the "official" lines herein. One of the very few shorts that has some game re-hashing in it, sorry!_

* * *

><p><strong>Bad dreams?<strong>

**Morgana**

He is still sitting, staring at the fire, when sleep takes her.

She expects the nightmares and the dragon, certainly, but what she does not expect when she jerks into wakefulness, uncurling herself from the desperate foetal position she seems to have found herself in, is to see him watching her, thoughtfully, almost as if... _he was waiting for her to wake up_.

They are simple words, but _now_ she understands, understands everything. "Bad dreams, huh?"

She doesn't answer his (rhetorical) question, instead murmuring, "Oh. I thought so."

He frowns, so she answers, "It was you, wasn't it? The bread and the tent. Thank you."

He nods briefly, embarrassed, waving it away, then the explanations begin, and apparently the dragon is the archdemon she's been hearing so much about, and she shudders at the thought of that _thing _inside her head -

When it finally registers, her eyes flicker to his in surprise, and, more deeply, a kind of mutual understanding (_He has them too, all Wardens do. _She _isn't _insane, and, more importantly, she isn't _alone) _and is surprised when she sees the same feelings mirrored; any anger she'd felt at him not telling her sooner dissolves_._

_"_I did tell you after you'd Joined," he says, "but you'd just drunk darkspawn blood, and... well... you didn't seem in much of a state to listen."

"So," she says, smiling weakly and feeling stupid at the way she's putting it, "it's... a Warden thing?"

"I guess you could say that."

Something occurs to her, remembering those odd feelings. "Does the taint do anything else?" Her voice is nearly a whisper now - what if the nightmares are normal, but she's losing her mind anyway? "Like... letting Wardens sense each other, their... feelings?"

He nods, smiling. "So you spotted that, did you? Yes. Darkspawn do it too, but it's... different."

She laughs, remembering Redcliffe, the mysterious gratitude flowing through her veins. "You really _have _ thanked me every time I've healed you."

Abashed, he stands, walks to his pack and begins looking through it, eventually bringing out a piece of cheese and a couple of books - "Some of the few things I took with me from the Chantry," he explains, at her questioning look - and sits by the fire once again. "I'd nearly blocked them out, but... Can't sleep."

She spots the real words behind the simple remark - _I'm afraid to. _"Me neither." Another small smile, and she wonders when she started _smiling _at him.

She wonders whether she is overstepping a line, but he knows about Jowan, and they are alone, and suddenly she _needs _to ask, because she is deeply ashamed at herself for not getting past whatever has been stopping her and asking sooner. "Do you want to talk about Duncan?"

He looks surprised, muttering something about how she never knew the man and doesn't have to do this, but something flickers behind his eyes - she sees straight past the charade and knows that he _needs _this, had needed it since Ostagar, and suddenly remembers all the times that she pushed him away, spoke coldly or didn't speak at all to him_._ For once, she listens properly to him, tries her best to say the right things, doesn't let it show in her expression when his voice cracks.

She isn't quite sure what to say when he asks her if she's lost anyone, and tells him, honestly, "No-one since I went to the Tower. I... don't really remember my family, though I know that I fought." She remembers Jowan, suddenly, and Anders, and sympathy stirs in her. "Maybe that's a blessing," she adds, quietly.

"That must have felt a lot like when I got sent to the Chantry. You mages don't even get a say in the matter, after all."

She looks up in surprise, wondering when this side of him came about, or if it was there the whole time and she just ignored it, assumed he felt nothing for the mages. She thinks grimly that it's probably the latter.

When he thanks her, apologises for what he seems to think of as burdening her with his grief, she finds herself saying, "Any time."

They sit, watching the fire, and she drifts off to sleep sometime before the dawn.


	24. Tower

_Some rambling for you:_

_Wow, fifty reviews! If I wasn't a person who just __**doesn't **__dance, I'd put on a dress and do the Remigold. I know it's through story longevity and regular reviewers (thanks especially to JayRain and karebear!) rather than sheer amount of readers, but it's still nice. There's also the fact that I've only been doing this for a __**month**__ - it feels like quite a long journey.  
>(End of self-indulgent rambling)<em>

_Anyway, story...  
>In which Morgana finally arrives at the Tower. <em>_**This **__should be interesting... Oh, and __**long**__ - __**really **__long - for me._

* * *

><p><strong>Tower<strong>

**Alistair**

He wakes to the lightening sky above him, and is puzzled for a moment before he remembers that he took watch; _and fell asleep on it_, he thinks, dejectedly - he'd thought that templar discipline was _good _for something. What if the darkspawn had come and eaten them all in the night? _Or turned us all into ghouls._ His far-too-knowledgeable-about-this-sort-of-thing inner Grey Warden seems to be rearing its head.

_Ohhh, greeat... _he thinks, remembering his automatic reaction to blood magic. Now he has an inner templar _and _an inner Grey Warden. He wonders for an addled, half-awake moment, still stepping out of the realm of dreams, if they'd get on.

As he runs a hand over his face with a small groan and gets off his bedroll - which, as always, seems _so _warm and inviting when he needs to do this - he spots his fellow Warden at the other side of the dead fire, still deep in a - hopefully - dreamless sleep, curled tightly into herself on the creased bedroll, still in armour, as he is. Night watch is for darkspawn attacks, and you have to have enough defences to do _something _about them if they happen - but _Maker, _sleeping in splintmail is uncomfortable.

He remembers last night, half-unsure whether it actually happened or not. Morgana comforting him about Duncan? A month ago, he would have said that someone was joking if they suggested it. Now...

Now he has _no idea _what he'd say, as the memory of the shy new recruit at Ostagar floats to the surface of his mind. Someone who actually seemed to understand his humour, who smiled a lot more, who stared at these exciting new things called mabari while trying hard not to look _too _interested, because she was a fully-Harrowed mage and not a naive little girl.

So maybe he only spent half-an-hour with her, and it was a _confusing _half-an-hour, but it was half-an-hour where he thought he may have found an ally - a friend. Well, there was also the fact that she was - _is _- the only woman in the Grey Wardens, which was on his mind _quite a lot_ while he was talking to her. Those half-thoughts quickly died with the whole "Chantry" thing, and the carefully-built wall she put up between them.

He saw a glimpse of the "old" her - not this embittered, often silent, armoured mage who seems to be so good at putting a shield up, even if he hasn't even taught her how to _lift_ a real one yet - last night.

He remembers her constantly looking around upon their first meeting, as if she wanted to drink it all in, as if the world would be snatched away from her at any moment, reminding him a little of himself when he first exited the Chantry. The result of living in the Tower.

A dark little coil of worry tightens in his chest as he remembers the fear and anger he's been half-feeling in his blood from her on the way here - he tries to guess at her reaction to entering the Tower again, and immediately realises that it won't be good.

Trying to shake these thoughts off, he begins his exercises.

* * *

><p>An hour or two later, there's a quiet "Muh" noise from behind him, and a low oath, which is actually a <em>whole new word <em>for his ever-growing vocabulary of words _not _to be used in polite company. Ever. Does what she mentioned even _exist?_

With a few clanks, she sits up, frowning at the fire, realising and acknowledging that he's standing near it with a murmured, "Oh. Hello."

He nods - companionably, he hopes. "Breakfast?"

She isn't quite fast enough to disguise the look of horror which flickers across her face as she shakes her head with an, "I'll sort it out," quickly adding as she sees his face fall, "Thank you, though. Your efforts _are_ appreciated."

It seems oddly formal, and he's thinking, _Oh, raised in a Tower... (_since her social skills obviously leave something to be desired), when he sees that there's a small smile hovering round the corner of her mouth, and remembers the warmth in the words. _Humour? _Well, that's...

... _Not that new at all, actually_, he thinks, remembering their conversations, and realises that he's been seeing glimpses of the "old" her for far longer than just last night.

He wonders if this is what Leliana's been seeing this whole time.

He wonders what's changed that's meant she's finally let him see this, and wonders when she will clamp down on it again.

She soon does - is all business with him and laughing along with Leliana when the sister gets up again - but he finds he is still in a good mood.

_Huh. _Maybe a glimpse is enough, for now._  
><em>

* * *

><p>When the Tower comes into view, the long but comfortable silence is gone, and in its place is this horribly intense <em>focus <em>on the building they are edging ever closer to. It's in the new set of her shoulders, the way she is gritting her teeth, the way her hand regularly travels to the dagger - she is still learning with the sword - buckled at her hip. He wonders with surprise if she learned that habit from him.

This is not Morgana, nor is it the formal, negotiating Grey Warden who calms villagers. This is a warrior, ready to go into battle, almost _animal, _expecting bloodshed but advancing all the same.

This is Duncan facing the darkspawn, dark eyes narrowed and almost black, him at his side, almost _scared _of the man.

This is _him, _he realises abruptly,watching the enemy advance, sword, shield and smite ready, the tiny little part of him screaming at him that _it would be a really good idea to run away right now, you know _almost shut away by years of training, a sharp sword and sheer adrenaline.

It is carefully controlled fear, choosing to fight rather than flee, and he recognises that look immediately.

As she stretches out a hand, without a word, and he drops his sword instinctively and foolishly as it bursts into enchanted flames - the loud _clang _breaks the silence, but she doesn't look back - he wonders when she became the grim figure standing in front of him.

* * *

><p>She takes Carroll down with tense but icily polite arguments, running circles round him, and he almost feels sorry for the man - wait, <em>he does, <em>seeing the telltale lyrium-addict large pupils, the slight hyperactivity, and realising the man is waiting for his next dose - as he rows them to the imposing building.

He swallows, taking his mind off the image of what he could've been in front of him, taking in Morgana's still-tense posture and realising in surprise that the presence of templars provokes almost exactly the same reaction from both of them.

* * *

><p>He doesn't miss her slight intake of breath at the front door; Morgana looks to Leliana, who gives her a reassuring smile, and then slips the warrior mask back on, hand steady on her dagger and face set.<p>

* * *

><p>She tells the Tower's <em>sunny <em>Knight-Commander that is good to see him again in impressively bland, false tones, rarely interjecting as he describes the Tower falling apart, prey to demons and abominations, many dying or becoming mindless vessels.

Her reaction to the mention of Annulment is the same as his - tensing, staring at Greagoir. She tells the templar that it will not be necessary, but it is clear he isn't convinced. Neither is Alistair.

As they prepare to enter what he imagines will be a living nightmare, she asks the man quietly, "Where is Anders? Still in a _cell?_"

"I have no clue as to his whereabouts," the man tells her. "Perhaps the Circle is better off without such a _delinquent_ in its ranks."

Something changes in her expression, then it is gone, and she looks into the man's eyes, staring, blank mask back on. _Staring him down. _It's a wonder the ice in her tone doesn't freeze the room. "The 'delinquent' is one of the Circle's best healers," she states, frighteningly calmly. "Either he is dead, or he is a useful asset. I intend to find out which."

Greagoir looks away first, and then she is striding towards the imposing doors, which the templars open at her approach.

As soon as the doors lock behind them and they are out of the templars' sight, she turns back, briefly, and in that moment, Alistair knows that even if _she _isn't clawing at the door and screaming to be let out, something in her eyes is.


	25. Silence

**Silence**

**Morgana**

Morgana frowns at the sight in front of her: A stern-faced woman who won't see fifty again trying to talk to a group of mages, who swiftly turns to them as they enter.

A flash of familiarity hits her as she looks at the woman she and many others studied under for _years_, usually calm and controlled, trying desperately to hold it together for the survivors.

She realises that the woman's bossiness has survived, though.

* * *

><p>The silence is deafening as they walk through the shell of what was once the Tower.<p>

She remembers the laughing apprentices, often just children, excited and too eager to show off how they can use ice in the middle of the corridor, sending others skidding and trying out the swears they'd learned in books.

She remembers the older mages, heads cocked to one side, watching them with the hint of a smile, though if you talked to them, they'd lecture you about how irresponsible you were...

The Tower may not have been _her _home, but she knows that that doesn't apply to every mage - she doesn't understand why, but some mages were quite happy to stay in the Tower all their lives. She looks around her, and suddenly thinks, sadly, _They did._

The Tower is _not_ her home; she's wanted to escape most of her life. So why does seeing it all gone hurt so much? She swallows, says nothing, walks past more corpses clad in the familiar blue robes. She knows that she could have been one of them, but she refuses to say it, make it real.

Leliana has been throwing her what she must think are subtle glances, and she suddenly realises that she's been trying to gauge her reaction.

The only sounds are their footsteps, the occasional metallic noises of armour and her own breathing.

Where are all the rabid abominations, the demons? Shouldn't there be creatures of the Fade rampaging through the halls?

Alistair catches her eye, nodding once, and in that moment something is shared between them, two comrades on the field. They're on their guard.

They pass another body, and Morgana stoops to look at it - she wonders why she cares, since it is only a templar, but she looks back at Alistair and can't help thinking that before the lyrium and the indoctrination, this mangled husk might have been like him: laughing, joking, _living_. Just a man.

She wonders when she started to think like this.

"_Morgana - " _Alistair starts to warn her, but she eases the shattered helmet off anyway, trying her best not to take any of the ruined skin off with it.

The face is charred to the point where it is unrecognisable, and, even though she tries to tell herself she has a strong stomach, bile rises in the back of her throat and she has to swallow it down.

There is a hand on her shoulder suddenly, and she jumps at the unexpected contact, looking to her side to see Leliana on the ground beside her, giving her a small smile and reciting the funeral lines of the Chant. When she is finished, she says softly, "There will be time for a pyre later; we must keep going."

Morgana nods, standing up, and Alistair asks, "Did you know who he was?"

"No. Just a templar." She thinks she sees him flinch at the use of "just" a templar - not a person, then? - and she didn't mean it like that - _this _time, at least - but when she opens her mouth to explain, the Senior Enchanter briskly cuts her off with something about needing to make progress.

They come to the first door, and then the abominations are all around them, _screaming, _and the silence is gone forever_._


	26. Dreamwalking

**Dreamwalking**

**Alistair**

The light is strange here.

It's the first thing he notices, and he is just about to ask about it, when his sister walks up to him, humming fragments of a tune he used to hear in the stables at Redcliffe, trying not to let the straw scratch too much and eavesdropping on the stable hands. He always found it... comforting, somehow.

Now he remembers - the light is _always _odd here, Goldanna is always forgetting to buy more candles, he should really remind her...

Something nags at him, as if he has forgotten something, but he brushes it away. He's probably just forgotten the cheese.

She is smiling at him, and there is pie, and life is _perfect. _His family is here, his niece running around his feet - a little ball of barely-compressed energy, just like he was at that age.

He wonders if Morgana ever had a family, before she was taken to the Tower - wait, who _is _Morgana, _what _Tower?

There is an odd noise, and then she is striding towards him, the glowing aura of defensive magic around her, a familiar splintmailed figure, and he remembers. _That's _Morgana. He almost remembers other things; they're at the edge of his memory, and they're slipping further and further away, and why is Goldanna's smile suddenly so _tight, _and he is grabbing onto what little memory he has, because he is sure, though he doesn't know why, that it's important, and he has that sensation of it slipping away again, and he is sure he'll forget Morgana's name, but he _can't _forget her name, he _can't - _

Goldanna smiles at him and asks if Morgana would like to stay for dinner, her daughter, his _niece, _clapping and jumping with a "Yes, yes please!" and he suddenly wonders if Morgana likes pie, asks her.

An expression flickers over Morgana's face for a moment as she takes in the scene - _pity? Why pity? Goldanna's house is __**lovely**__, there aren't even cockroaches like so many in Denerim - _but then it is gone, and, face blank almost like she is _making _it that way, she ignores Goldanna - rather rudely - and takes hold of his arm. Gentle though the touch is, bringing back memories of healing - healing, what's healing? - something of the haze clears, and his fellow Grey Warden - wait, what's a Grey Warden, why are the words provoking an odd warm feeling in his chest, like when he sees his _family? _- says quietly to him, "Alistair, this isn't real. Any of it."

He shakes his head. What an odd thing to say. Maybe _she's _not real...

"This is the Fade. They are _demons. Please..._"

He still doesn't understand, and is beginning to take offense at the way she keeps referring to his family.

She shakes her head, as if in exasperation, but what is there to be exasperated about here? There's _pie... _She's talking again."I'll _try_ reasoning, but I doubt I'll get anywhere. If I _can't _reason..." She looks back to his sister and the child playing on the floor with a doll he got her when she was a baby. (He remembers that. Can't remember _where_ he got it, though...) She swallows. "If I _can't _reason, I'll try and make it quick."

She is shouting at Goldanna, something about demons...

He feels the mana spark, flare into life into her veins, because she is about to put it to use and he can sense it because every templar-trained bone in his body is humming with the build-up and what's a _templar _anyway?

It all comes back as she sends a fireball towards his sister - _wait! His __**sister!**_** - **and summons up lightning when Goldanna gets back up again, wincing as it hits the woman, taking a deep breath.

It's like seeing her for the first time - he remembers her nervously fumbling with the sword - but she's getting better, _so_ much better, because he's been teaching her, he remembers - and contrasts it to the woman throwing spells ten to the dozen, anger in her eyes, _glowing _with mana, focus never wavering; _she is a mage. The Fade is her place_, he realises abruptly, admiration for her talent and fear of it fighting each other for dominance, and then panics because he's not dreaming - he _thinks_ - so why is _he_ in the Fade?

He searches for the barrier, the fortress, to pull around his mind, he can't find it, because you can't use templar skills here even if you still have the senses, and there's no Veil for protection, and demons and spirits -

The little girl - what he'd thought was his niece - has disappeared. Was it part of the demon also pretending to be Goldanna?

She turns to him, and says calmly, almost kindly, "They weren't your family, Alistair. See your family _outside _the Fade - it's where they truly are."

He is about to say something, but everything is fading and _where is she_ - ?


	27. Boundaries

_This chapter may not seem very sympathetic to Cullen - I do quite like the character, but imagine how a deeply templar-phobic mage would react to his request to kill all mages in the Tower._

* * *

><p><strong>Boundaries<strong>

**Morgana**

The others look at her in surprise when the first thing she does after waking up is to gently close Niall's eyes. She sees them, and explains, "My teacher." She swallows, adding in a low voice, "My friend." She almost can't bring herself to disturb the body, but they need the Litany.

Knowing he wouldn't have wanted it, she shakes her head when Leliana moves to pray for him, instead laying a hand upon his cold forehead before standing and looking to her companions. Alistair looks like he's about to say something, but she shakes her head again, and they move on, leaving one more aspect of her old life behind.

* * *

><p>Her first instinct when she sees the templar, on hands and knees and sobbing into the ground, in the magical cage, is pity, even knowing what he is.<p>

Then she looks at the walls of the Tower around them, remembers what Alistair said about the Chantry, and realizes that he's probably been in a cage since he was a child.

This is just a visible one.

He's ranting, half-crazed, and she catches things about blood mages, demons, tricks, but they make little sense.

She crouches to take a closer look, knowing he won't be able to get out, and recognises him.

_Oh, Cullen. _She remembers him, the templar who could never look anyone in the eye - though foolish apprentices had said it was just her - and had a permanent stutter. She'd briefly said hello to him a few times, knowing he was a templar and quick to get to her friends. She knew the templars used to treat him badly, knew there were rumours about... about him and herself, but hadn't really paid any attention.

She looks up, surprised, as he starts talking about temptation, a woman, a _mage..._ She has to stop herself gaping in surprise. _But he's a __**templar**__..._

Then it becomes obvious who the mage he's talking about is, and she backs away in horror, because this _can't _be true, he's a _templar, _and she's a _mage, _and there are _boundaries_, and they don't even view mages as _equals_, never mind as anything _else, _because if it's true she's been wrong about so _much..._

A hand on her shoulder, an attempted touch of reassurance, and she looks away from Cullen, expecting to see Leliana at her side, but it's _Alistair_ who gives her a nod, face set, taking his hand away, and she knows she has to go back to that terrible shimmering cage.

Even Alistair looks horrified as Cullen tells them to kill the mages, kill them _all. _

She shakes her head_. Never. _"We will free everyone_... including the mages."_

She looks at this broken monster as he condemns her, and she wonders how he could ever have loved her.


	28. Compression

**Compression**

**Alistair**

Uldred is gone, the danger passed, but as she asks to stay longer, Morgana is cold, staring grimly in front of her.

Leliana asks her what is wrong, but she simply says, "Anders", like it will explain everything. Maybe to _her _it will, but he's still left wondering who this man is that seems to preoccupy her so much. A lover? A brother?

"This 'Anders' - " he begins, cautiously, but she cuts him off, seemingly not having time for niceties.

"A friend."

She sees his sceptical look, and says, "Nothing more. Nothing less."

Again, nothing even _close _to an explanation, but there's time, he thinks. "Right." He leaves Wynne talking to Greagoir and Irving, making prepearations to leave with them, and follows her back through those doors, into the gates of the Black City itself.

* * *

><p><em>This<em> was... not what he expected. She orders them around one last circuit of the mages' quarters (he ignores the churning in his stomach as he turns over another corpse), and when he asks _why, _she simply says again, "Anders."

None of the corpses are the man she seems to be looking for - apparently a mage - though some are mutilated beyond recognition, so how would they _know... _

He cuts this unpleasant thought off at the look on Morgana's face. She swallows. "Maybe he escaped."

Escaped? The Tower? He didn't even know it was possible, but Morgana says it like it's a regular occurrence - maybe it _is _for this Anders.

She looks ahead, her face set, but he thinks that they're feeling the same thing: blood soaks the walls; the templar in him and, he knows, the mage in her, can sense gaping tears in the Veil from the atrocities committed here, and it makes every hair on the back on his neck, down his spine, stand on end; for the love of the _Maker, _they're having to step over _corpses, _and he tries not to look at them too hard, tries not to notice how _small _some of them are, because the only way he is coping is focusing on their leader, on the mask she is wearing that is slipping dangerously, and listening to his own heartbeat in the silence that seems to have settled over the Tower. He can't explain it, but this place, its walls, is pressing down on them, and it's hard to_ breathe_ here.

Morgana looks to him, looking like she, too, is making a conscious effort to keep her breathing steady. "We need to go," is all she says, but he nods, and so does Leliana, something nameless, something _human, _shared between the three of them.

Before any of them seem to have consciously decided on a destination, they're striding towards the doors, eager to breathe clean air, and Wynne hurries to keep up with them, breaking off her conversation with Greagoir and Irving.

His only thought, as they break through the doors and he _swears _he sees Morgana sigh, smile, inhale, is that he'd forgotten how good sunshine felt.


	29. Rain

_While writing this chapter, I set a challenge at the Dragon Age Writers' Corner forum: write a story from the perspective of someone discovering rain for the first time. The members of DAWC very nicely obliged, and all the stories I know of that were a challenge answer are at the bottom of this page._

_This chapter is on the same subject._

* * *

><p><strong>Rain<strong>

**Morgana**

The drought that destroyed so many of the crops in Lothering ends the day after they escape - _no, exit, they weren't locked in there, _she reminds herself_ - _the Tower.

She looks up at the feel of water on the back of her neck, wondering if someone's found it funny to spit on her, but who in their group _would?_

Another drop. She looks up. _Surely, it can't be - ?_

"Morgana, are you all right?"

She's about to answer Alistair's question, but more drops hit her, and she's overtaken by a sudden, wonderful realization. "Is... is this rain?"

He nods, frowning. "What, you've never been rained on before?"

She hasn't felt the rain since she was four years old; she doesn't remember what it was like. She remembers other things, though: years of lapping up all Anders' escape attempts, waiting for him to describe it, listening for the sound of it on the roof...

He always said that one of the best things about being outside the Tower was the rain.

How she wishes he were here.

If you can feel the rain, you're free. If you can feel the rain, you're _alive. _It was something they always agreed upon._  
><em>

She looks up in wonder as the raindrops hit her face, the rain becoming heavier, feeling stupid and trying not to be too obvious.

Leliana appears to be playing with her damp hair, trying to neaten it, and she wonders why.

The words come out before she can stop them, a dazed murmur and a choked epiphany: "_I'm free_."

The Tower is fading out of sight behind them as they walk on, and, for once, soaked to the skin under the plates of her armour, far away from that place and with her comrades beside her, she feels that it's true.

* * *

><p><em>Other "rain" stories for this challenge:<em>

Feels Like Rain (karebear)

First Rain (MLHawke)

Rain Of Questions (deagh)

Right As Rain (MsBarrows)

Sky Water (JayRain)

The Maker's Tears (Arrocalot)


	30. Blood

_Surely I'm not the only one who spotted the irony here, comparing the whole "bastard prince" and "Warden" thing._

* * *

><p><strong>Blood<strong>

**Alistair**

"Why did you hide your birthright?" There is a soft sound of wool against wool as she sits down beside him. She's been wearing tunics since Lothering, but the realization takes him by surprise. _She wears breeches?_

The question surprises him as well, and he's really not too sure what to say.

"I... didn't want to be treated differently. Didn't want my blood to rule who I was, I suppose."

She looks at him for a moment. The comment is thoughtful, and he's sure the twinkle in her eye isn't from the firelight. "You didn't want your blood to rule who you were... yet you're proud of being a Grey Warden, where the taint defines you?"

He's about to reply, to say that the Wardens make you give up family names, _something,_ but he's temporarily rendered speechless, so he says instead, "What are you going to do with Jowan?"

She looks him in the eye again, surprised, then slowly exhales. "Not my choice. I told him to stay behind, he tried to help them, so maybe..." She looks hopeful. "... Maybe he'll have a chance at freedom."

The part of him that was raised with a knowledge of how the Chantry works, that knows Teagan too well, knows that Jowan, no matter _how_ much he means to her, is still a maleficar, knows that won't happen, but he sees something in her eyes as she pretends to stare into the fire and not care about his reply that stops him from saying it. He remembers the mage trying to restrain childlike wonder at the rain, the woman that held onto the cell bars at Redcliffe and stood by helping a maleficar escape because he was her _friend, _and it hits him that this uncaring warrior attitude... it's an act, and for the first time since he's known her, he's actually _scared_ of hurting her. The epiphany shakes him. He responds with a quiet, "Maybe," and joins her in staring at the fire.

The truth is for tomorrow.


	31. Tomorrow

_Believe it or not, I am trying to make _Armour_ as much about friendship as romance, so expect some Morgana/Leliana friendship fluff later, as well as... this._

* * *

><p><strong>Tomorrow<strong>

**Morgana**

Alistair looks more and more pained as they approach the castle; she'd assumed flushing out the demon was a good thing, and she can't help wondering why. A few times he looks as though he's about to say something, then shakes his head and seems to give up.

* * *

><p>When they ask which mage will go into the Fade, she chooses herself - it's the least cowardly option, in her opinion. She meets Jowan's eye, as if in reassurance, but he's surrounded by Tower mages glowering at him, and he returns the look only briefly before fixing his eyes on the floor.<p>

She accepts nothing the demon offers; she'd thought it would be harder, and indeed, images of all that she could have flash before her eyes, but she takes a deep breath and remembers all that anchors her to the real world: her duty, Brian (she smiles at remembering how he likes to be scratched behind the ears), her... _friends_. The word feels different now - there were always Jowan and Anders (she remembers that Anders is... gone, and her heart drops like a rock), but it's meant in a different sense now. There's still Jowan, but others too - those she fights with, those who shield her...

She ignores the whispers in her head, as she has done all her life, and it is soon over.

* * *

><p>She looks Teagan in the eye, and doesn't raise her voice; quite the opposite - it gets quieter the more angry she gets. "Still in a cell?"<p>

He nods. "My lady - "

"Until your brother wakes up?"

Wisely, he seems to realize that speaking is not a good idea, and simply nods again.

"I... see." She keeps her hands behind her back, falsely casual, so he can't see the way her fists are clenched and that she is trying to control herself. She reasons that it's not his fault, he isn't the Arl, and somehow manages to calm herself, unclenching her fists finger by finger and bringing them back to her sides, putting on her formal Warden mask. "I will return shortly. With the Ashes."

Another nod.

She turns to her companions, says for their ears only, "I... need a moment. There's something I have to do. Can I meet you at the gates?"

Alistair still looks uncomfortable, but nods; Leliana is about to say something, but stops, instead slipping her a health poultice and a small smile. "Perhaps this will help."

She returns the smile. "Thank you." What else can she say?

Leliana puts a hand on her arm before turning away. "The guards here... they are not cruel."

As Morgana begins the long walk to the dungeons, she realises that it's true what they say: Chantry sisters really _are_ terrible liars.

* * *

><p>She dismisses the guards, even though she knows perfectly well she has none of the authority to, and they trudge away.<p>

She tries to ignore the knot that ties itself round her heart as she sees a familiar figure, face down on the dirty stone floor, only the heaving of his back showing he's alive at all. She kneels, and, registering her presence, Jowan looks up. "Ana?"

She nods. Of _course_ her eyes aren't watering, it's only the wind, never mind that there's no wind here... She reaches out and clasps his hand through the bars. They stay like that for a moment, before he begins to protest.

"But..." _But I'm a blood mage, but I ran, but... _She knows him too well.

She shakes her head as she rummages through her pack, and all she offers by way of explanation is, "Your own blood. Never to kill."

He nods his head, still surprised, and she looks up to meet his eye. He tries his best to give her a smile, though it is marred by the blood trail streaming from his broken nose - the guards' work - and she returns it. Well, tries to.

It doesn't matter what either of them are wearing, it doesn't matter how much things have changed around them - in that moment, a kindred spirit recognises another.

She passes him all that she could smuggle in, and he does his best to tuck them under his robes - elfroot, a piece of Alistair's best cheese, bread, a few small vegetables... A dim voice reminds her that she will have to restock supplies with what little money they have, that she is giving too much, but she ignores it.

She looks down at their hands as he takes them, and an involuntary memory rises to the surface: half an orange on Saturnalia morning, in a cold dormitory.

She meets his eye, knows he is thinking the same, and they share another smile.

She spreads out her mana, healing all that she can - though she can barely touch him, is soon exhausted and is severely lacking lyrium - and then stands up.

He does the same. "You... You'll come back?"

She nods. "Always."

It's not what he meant and they both know it, but he nods anyway.

She adds, "You aren't staying here. I won't let them. You'll be free."

He gives her a broken smile. "You sound like Anders."

She hasn't the heart to tell him about the Tower.

He catches her arm as she begins to walk away. "If you see Lily... tell her I love her. That I'm sorry." His eyes are gleaming now, the same as hers.

She nods. One last smile. She turns and walks away, and with every step, she is more certain that he _cannot stay in there._

The sunlight blinds her as she walks out of the castle, and she looks back, not caring that she won't be able to see him, imprisoned in stone. As always.


	32. Straw

_Right, that's it - Brian seems to have officially become an _Armour_ side character. *shrugs* What the mabari wants, the mabari gets._

* * *

><p><strong>Straw<strong>

**Alistair**

It's the first memory that hits him - straw, and that mabari-and-horse smell. He stands there, feeling like a fool, pretending not to inhale the memories. He hasn't been here since he was sent to the Chantry.

He hears the stable boys exchanging a crude joke in the used stalls. He learned his first curse here; when he'd asked what it meant, Isolde, reluctant to get her hands dirty, had made one of the servants beat him while she stood, watching, without a word. When she'd decided that it would suffice, she'd held up a hand and walked out of the room, expression emotionless. He'd never forgiven her.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair - even as a man, many years later, the memory makes him uncomfortable.

There are happier memories here, too: one of the stable hands, Rhynn, who, at the time, had seemed large and rather scary at first (he thinks about it and realizes with mixed surprise and melancholy that he'd actually be taller than the man now) who had tried his best to keep an eye on him. Tall, gruff, but smiled often. Taught him the value of good, hard work, did his best to bandage up the most painful injuries - the others, he'd reminded him, were all part of a life of labour, and Alistair had nodded, looking up in slight amazement at this wise man who seemed to know _everything_, or what counts as everything when you're eight - and tell him about the animals in the stable. Every night, when he'd go home to his wife and children, he'd pass Alistair a piece of food, without fail, patting him on the head and leaving. It was the best he'd get all day, and, years later, he realized it was cheese: Redcliffe Red, to be precise.

"Alistair?"

He'd known she'd find him eventually. He doesn't even know why he's here. To think? To burrow under the straw far enough that he can hide from the darkspawn? He sighs.

"Leliana said you were doubling back to see Bann Teagan. Check on Connor."

"I was." Well, it's true. Sort of. He hasn't seen Connor since he was ten years old, and he wasn't a _mage _back then... Wait. He's _always_ been a mage. They just didn't know.

She joins him. "Isolde made you sleep here, didn't she?"

He begins to protest that she had her reasons, that Eamon was good to him, but she shakes her head. "Yes, she had her reasons - that she was a jealous bitch and you were too young to protest. Eamon was old enough to know better than to bow to her will." She runs her hand through her hair in frustration - he's sure she never used to do that before - and then turns. "Teagan?"

He shakes his head, all will to see his uncle gone. "Maybe later." He wonders how her encounter with Jowan went, but doesn't dare to ask.

As they begin to walk back to the village gates, where they were _supposed _to meet, she says conversationally, "You know, considering you grew up here, you'd think you'd be better with mabari."

"I'm _fine _with mabari," is his defensive reply, even though he's actually not too sure. "I just didn't know they could hold _grudges."_

"Brian does _not _hold a grudge against you. That's ridiculous."

"Explain that to what _were _my only dry pair of socks."

"Your... socks?"

"From the Chantry. They even had my name sti - " He cuts himself off, seeing the expression on her face. "_What?"_


	33. Gifts

**Gifts **

**Leliana**

She is humming an old tune she learned in Orlais - one about a knight who embarks on an affair with his queen, and the war that ensues.

There is the sound of armour clanking and a loud knocking thud - wood? She looks to her side to see Morgana sitting down with a lute. "I... er... here." She passes it to her, and she instantly tries out the strings, tuning each one.

"What have I done to deserve this?"

"Well." Morgana stops - she seems to have to think about it for a moment. "You've been good. To me. And..." She looks at the flames. "I know you enjoy playing. I used to."

Leliana looks to her in surprise. "I didn't know."

"The templars hated it, but we had hobbies in the Tower; stopped us from going insane, I suppose. Or we were possessed, and they didn't. Mine was lute, and... reading."

"Reading?"

"There's more than one kind of escape." Morgana looks her in the eye, swiftly looking away again to the fire.

"Thank you. I will treasure it."

Morgana smiles, nods. "I better go." Alistair is waiting impatiently by the trees - Leliana heard the conversation they had earlier, and knows that tonight Morgana is having another of her lessons.

After she is gone, Leliana turns the lute over, checking it for damage - sylvanwood, she thinks. Her fingers brush something that scrapes, and she moves it to look. Someone has scratched tiny initials onto it: _M.A._


	34. Cracks

**Cracks**

**Morgana**

She runs her finger over the metal. The familiar engraved symbol of Andraste, with the familiar straight nose and full lips (was Andraste truly beautiful, or did those who crafted her image have the religious obligation of making her so?), the cracks across its surface - she is almost certain that it's the same one. She looks to her fellow Warden, considering, wondering about the woman who owned the trinket and realizing with a jolt that he knew his family even less than she did.

Though the faces are blurred, she still has the memories of a scent, of warm arms and a quiet but infectious laugh. He doesn't even have that.

* * *

><p>He still seems quite unable to believe his eyes, even when holding his mother's amulet and turning it over in his fingers; when he says in so many words that he isn't worth listening to, she knows from experience that he is only half-joking, and anger flashes across her face, breaks her carefully controlled facade before she can stop it. She swallows it down. "Of <em>course<em> I listened. It was important to you." She senses that he's about to say something, but she mumbles a vague excuse about gathering firewood and walks into the nearby forest.

Oh, she knows _that _feeling - being unimportant, a liability, a _danger. _She is a Warden now, however, and she refuses to face it again. That past is far behind her.

Then she remembers Jowan in his cell; it's still following her - just at a greater distance.

She has lost nearly all she knew - she wonders when the cracks will begin to show.


	35. Carpe diem

_Now, see, this is why I'm grateful for the Dragon Age Wiki._

* * *

><p><strong>Carpe diem<strong>

**Morgana**

The Chant washes over her as she polishes her armour. Half of her, the half that has hated the Chantry for years, wants not to hear it; the other half, the one that read every book she could get her hands on and played the lute, admires its simple poetry.

_"The Light shall lead her safely_

_Through the paths of this world, and into the next..."_

Leliana's smooth tones carry each word through the camp, murmuring as she is.

A raven flies overhead, a yellow eye on them, and Morgana nods in acknowledgement as she recognises Morrigan.

She jumps, and immediately feels foolish for it, as Alistair sits beside her, joining her in the mind-numbing task, his own splintmail and waxy brush in hand. "So..." he says casually, "what are you going to do? When all this is over, I mean."

She thinks for a moment. "If we survive?" A harsh almost-laugh finds its way out of her mouth.

"Practical, aren't you?" he says lightly, with that slight hint of panic that seems to be his speciality. "But, seriously..."

She shrugs. "_Something_. I can't go back to the Tower again. Does that make me an apostate?"

He shakes his head. "Grey Wardens are out of the Chantry's hands. Why do you think I'm still sitting here?"

She leans back, exhales.

_"She should see fire and go towards Light..."_

"Honestly, Alistair? I have no idea. I could die tomorrow. _Carpe diem_, as they say."

She waits for him to inevitably ask what it means, but is surprised to hear him repeat, "Seize the day." He meets her eye. "My Arcanum's a little rusty. That _is_ what it means...?"

Ah. Arcanum: one of the benefits (or curses, according to the apprentices) of a good Chantry education. Not just for the mages, it seems.

She nods. "Seems like a good motto for a Warden."

He laughs humourlessly. "More than you know." He looks uncomfortable, fidgets, seems to have trouble meeting her eye. "Look, there's something I have to tell you. About the taint, and... well, the Grey Warden lifespan."


	36. In For The Kill

_My first attempt at writing Zev - hope I haven't mangled the character too much!_

* * *

><p><strong>In For The Kill<strong>

**Zevran**

He idly runs a finger over a dagger, licking the blood away afterwards and yawning. Considering how much he's paid her for the job, she's taking an awfully long time. Unless... surely they can't have worked it out? He shakes his head, tapping a foot impatiently and looking to his cohorts.

He is just beginning to think that that _charming _fellow Loghain has not paid him nearly enough for this wait, when the Wardens make their grand entrance.

Quite the beautiful party - the fair-haired fellow is of broad shoulder and good build, followed by a prettily pouting little redhead and a... _dour _woman who takes in their surroundings with golden eyes, as if surveying her territory. He approves. He approves also of her wonderfully flimsy robes - he knew the whores had their tricks, but there must be some magic involved with those... It is a shame that this will probably be a simple assassination.

Ah. The other Warden. She runs behind the others, looking worried, clanking in splintmail similar to the man's and carrying a longsword, which she seems to look at nervously every few seconds, as if to check it hasn't fallen out of its scabbard.

Which is why it surprises him that when he announces his merry little band's less-than-noble intentions, she pulls a fireball to hand, nodding to the warrior.

He carefully avoids the pouty (and impressively deadly) redhead's daggers, watching this odd, sword-wielding mage finish off his archers with a few arcane bolts (He shrugs. They were always replaceable) and ducks another of the woman's stabs - he would have hated to lose his pretty face, after all. He shakes off the block of ice that the hawk-eyed mage has grown round his hand and looks in puzzlement as one of his nastier moves, a little twirl and feint, doesn't fool the redhead, who smiles. "I have seen better than you."

He severely doubts it.

By the time he notices that his men are all dead, it is too late, and soon, with the help of her friends, he surfaces from unconsciousness to be greeted with the sight of the woman Warden standing over him, her sword at his neck. Her colleague stands a little to her side, sword remaining almost casually in his hand.

_Mierda._

The question now, he supposes, is death by Crow or death by Warden?

Unless...


	37. Blessed

_After re-playing _Leliana's Song_ and loving it, I ended up writing this. This is truer to the original shorts format, so bear with it. More Chant-quoting._

* * *

><p><strong>Blessed<strong>

**Leliana**

_(Here lies the abyss, the well of all souls._

_From these emerald waters doth life begin anew._

_Come to me, child, and I shall embrace you._

_In my arms lies Eternity_.)

The woman unfolded herself from the shadows, dress the colour of midnight simply cut in a way only found in Orlais; she gave a smile, looking her up and down. "So, you are here."

It was difficult not to feel awkward; palms sweating, she nodded, trying to smile.

The woman came closer, turned her chin up with a hand to see her face better. "My, you _are _pretty, aren't you?"

Warm breath blew on her face, and she tried not to tremble.

"Come." The woman turned. "It is time to... play a game."

* * *

><p><em>(With passion'd breath does the darkness creep.<em>

_It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep.)_

She never noticed the little things that would disappear from her pack, at the time: remnants of her old life, keys she would need if she ever wanted to leave. If she did wonder, it was all forgotten with the whisper in her ear.

"What shall we do tonight, pretty thing?"

* * *

><p><em>(What one man gains, another has lost.<em>

_Those who steal from their brothers and sisters_

_Do harm to their livelihood and to their peace of mind._

_Our Maker sees this with a heavy heart.) _

She noticed the shabbiness of the house, that those who owned it probably barely had enough to feed their family. Her heart sank for a moment, before Marjolaine hissed to her, asking her what she was waiting for, and she slipped the bread and the ring in her pocket. They would make a pretty penny, she thought, ignoring the ache of guilt in her chest.

* * *

><p><em>(Many are those who wander in sin,<em>

_Despairing that they are lost forever...)_

The first time she killed a man, she had to drop the dagger and stem the nausea. Marjolaine scolded her, reminding her how many people he had probably lied to and killed himself, but when she backed away, shaking her head, she received a slap to the face. "Stupid girl! This is what we do! Get up!"

She was pushed out of the house, thanking the Maker Marjolaine was angry. When she was happy, people died.

* * *

><p><em>(As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,<em>

_She should see fire and go towards Light.)_

The pain was taking over her thoughts.

She should have known Marjolaine would betray her in the end - it was too much to hope that she was the only one not being played with. Worse, it was _naive._ It made sense, her betrayal with Raleigh - perfect political sense. Being left to rot as a plaything in a cell, however? That was just _la putain_'s idea of _fun_.

She didn't see her feet slip from under her, had a second of horror before all went black.

* * *

><p><em>(Blessed are they who stand before<em>

_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._

_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.)_

She looked her lover, nearly killer, in the eye, and it was the other woman who looked away first. There was no justification for... for _this._ She knew Marjolaine expected a dagger through the chest; it was what she would have done. Instead, she walked away, leaving behind a broken and vengeful creature she had once thought she'd known. Once thought she'd loved.

* * *

><p>She tries to drown out these thoughts with the Chant, lie the reassuring words over Marjolaine's spiteful ones.<p>

She and that... _woman_ are _not _the same.

Yet those around her still think her a Chantry sister. She has lied to them all, and she cannot continue to.

The Chant she is murmuring stops abruptly, as, for the first time in a long while, it cannot help her.


	38. Family

**Family**

**Morgana**

She never knew her family, and yet she knew them well. It's complicated to explain, but she tries.

* * *

><p>They'd seen Genetivi's assistant and done their duties for the day, so she'd been happy to visit his sister with him - like him, she'd been naive enough to think that he would be welcomed with open arms. That maybe, like the dream, there would even be pie.<p>

Leliana went to speak to the Orlesian woman selling the impractical wares - scents and silks, was it? - and they stepped inside the house, easing the door open and peering around.

She had recoiled at the sight of this... _washerwoman _that had almost spat upon him, only just stopping herself flinching at the venomous words Goldanna spouted.

She had known that he'd pinned many hopes on this visit, but it didn't quite sink in how much he was hurting until she saw his hand shake on his sword for the first time since she'd known him, the templar's set of his face (calm but blank, always blank), the ominously unusual silence on the way back to camp.

She shook her head when he thanked her, saying truthfully that it hadn't cost _her _anything - an act of kindness to a friend, that was all.

He'd looked slightly surprised at this, and she wondered when she started thinking of him that way.

* * *

><p>He looks up as she sits next to him, offering him an apple picked from a nearby tree. He takes it, thanking her and trying valiantly to smile.<p>

A deep breath. "She never knew you, never made any impact on your life." She doesn't quite know how to explain this. "When I said I had no family... I lied." He looks at her, frowning. "Well, not lied, more... phrased it badly." She is staring into the fire again, a habit she has acquired on their travels, partly so she won't see his face. "I had my family in Jowan, in Anders, maybe even Irving. He tried to make the Tower a home for me, tried to make me accept that I wasn't getting out again. And now I've lost them all, just in different ways." She stops - why is this so bloody _hard? _"Mages can never know their parents by blood, so we_ choose_ our family." She looks to him. "And so can you."

"I... never thought of it that way."

"Your family are those who stand beside you. She didn't. You choose who you trust with your heart." She smiles, even if it's slightly sad. "I, er, have to find some firewood." Any excuse to give him the time he needs.

When she looks back, he's still staring into the fire.


	39. War Paint

_Just an odd little thought I had while adjusting the (totally unnecessary) eyeshadow slider. A bit of a girlie segment (not going to make a habit of that) here, but it does tie in with the bigger plot and with the Tower. The naivety the mages would have from being locked where they were all their life just... got stuck in my head, somehow, and combining that with female friendship ended up with this._

* * *

><p><strong>War Paint<strong>

**Leliana**

Leliana watches with a mix of amusement and horror as Morgana turns the small box from Denerim over in her hands, frowning, cautiously opening it to sniff at the lilac powder.

When she explains what it is, the other woman looks to her; is she imagining it, or is their practical swordswoman _wide-eyed?_ "We were never allowed in the Tower... I... I don't know how..."

"Never?"

Morgana looks slightly sheepish as she shakes her head, a blush colouring her cheeks.

"At all?"

Another shake of the head, a mouth opened to protest, but Leliana interrupts, a smile on her face.

"Well, we'll have to change that, won't we?"

* * *

><p>She applies it carefully, still a little surprised at how very <em>young <em>their fearless leader seems in fear and firelight.

She holds the brush aside, despairing at how quickly horsehair has to be replaced, as she looks at the woman in front of her, who is wearing an expression of... terror, for lack of a better word.

She is also now wearing expertly applied lilac eyeshadow.

Leliana smiles, satisfied, leaning back to admire her handiwork. "I _knew _it would bring out your eyes."

Still looking distinctly panicked, Morgana accepts the little silver looking-glass. "We were never allowed... this... at the Tower. The templars, they said vanity was a sin, that mages shouldn't self-worship when there was the Maker."

The question is quiet, cautious. "And do you believe that?"

Morgana takes one last look at herself, then meets her eye, and smiles. "... _No_." The word sounds breathless, almost amazed. An epiphany, Leliana realises.

* * *

><p>She cannot help but watch the two Wardens, watch Alistair's stare as Morgana sits by the fire.<p>

"What?" Morgana says jumpily, clearly still self-conscious. "Do I have something on my face?"

Leliana struggles not to laugh as he cringes. "Well... yes, actually, you do."

She doesn't know what she expects - anger, silence, Morgana stalking to her tent? Instead, she simply smiles, crouching to scratch Brian behind the ears, and says, "Think of it as... war paint."

For once, Alistair has nothing to say.


	40. Raindrops

_Chapter 40! Wow. A lot has changed since this fic started..._

_This is sort of a continuation of "Teacher" and "Rain", but neither are required reading._

* * *

><p><strong>Raindrops<strong>

**Alistair**

He has to grin as he watches her move; she darts the occasional glance to him, seeking approval. He nods, smiles, and she returns it. Her movements are still a little clumsy, but she'll be fine once she's got the hang of it.

An old memory resurfaces.

* * *

><p>Rough hands on his shoulders, steadying him. The broad man walking in front of him, helm off and the first traces of grey visible in his beard.<p>

He couldn't help shaking; the cries of "bastard" were still ringing in his ears, and he'd never held a sword before. No-one had told him they were so _sharp. _

Well, they _had, _but it had never really registered until he felt the weight of the iron, hands still a child's wrapping round the rough leather of the hilt. He looked up to the templar, saw the angry set of his face, and his hands promptly slipped on the sword. It clattered to the ground embarrassingly loudly.

Maker, he was never _designed _for this. He'd hit the dreaded gangly stage, all legs and arms and tripping over your own knees. Strength and swords? Not for him. _Definitely _not for him.

Laughs from the other initiates; a gauntlet slapping into the side of his face. Surprisingly lightly, though, and a whisper of, "Show 'em, boy."

He looked one last time at Ser Wilfrud, swallowing, then did his best to pick up the sword, steadying his posture, concentrating on the stance he'd been taught, wincing with the effort, actually _succeeding_.

Silence from the other initiates, for once, and no words from Wilfrud. Just a nod and a smile.

* * *

><p>He is jerked out of his trance by a drop of rain on his face.<p>

Morgana is holding the sword slack at her side, smiling and looking to the sky. He remembers after the tower, how surprised she'd seemed at the rain, how she'd kept looking up at the sky as they walked (and miraculously not tripped over anything), Leliana muttering what he was pretty sure were Orlesian curses and battling her hair.

Forgetting how soaked he is himself, he tries not to stare. It's freezing and _wet, _and she's _smiling, _simple joy on her face. His heart sinks as he realises _why _rain must be new to her - as she put it so succinctly at Ostagar, "the whole locked in a tower for years thing".

He gently walks over to her, taking the sword from her and sheathing it. She mutters her thanks, still clearly distracted.

"The... rain?" He motions toward her tent.

She shakes her head, still slightly dazed, then looks around, only just seeming to realise that everyone else has taken shelter in their own tents. "I'll be here for a while," she says.

He nods, and she jumps as he throws his only cloak over her shoulders. "Here." There's little else to say, and little else to do other than retire to his own tent and hope she doesn't get soaked.

"Thank you," she calls after him, and then she is lost once again.

When he sticks his head out of his tent a few minutes later, she is still there, holding the cloak tightly to her, face turned to the sky in bliss.

He shakes his head in disbelief, unsure whether to sigh in exasperation or smile - she is the oddest woman he's ever come across.


	41. Stars

_A chapter I've wanted to write since I began _Armour_._

* * *

><p><strong>Stars<strong>

**Morgana**

No-one, not even Leliana, understands why they sleep later than the others. Surely they've heard the screams, the thrashing, in the night?

Only he seems to truly know how she feels. Their bond is silent except for the thrum of the taint-song in their veins; she looks into his eyes and sees the same agreement, the same fear. It truly is, as he'd put it, "a Warden thing".

All they can do is try in vain to stave off the nightmares, wake the other from them when they come, and, without ever actually saying the words, it's something they've agreed to do for each other. As comrades. As friends.

* * *

><p>There are so many wonderful things about this strange new world (well, not <em>new, <em>exactly - it's always been there, she just hasn't been _in _it) - rain is one thing; stars are another.

She lies near the fire and watches them in silence, remembering a book she read. Yellow pages crackling in the midnight silence of the library, no song there tonight; dark rings under her eyes, the carefully drawn star maps blurring, constant yawning. Still she read, determined to finish it.

She has forgotten most of it now, but a cluster of stars catches her attention.

It isn't long before Alistair sits next to her, a habit they seem to have comfortably settled into, and sees where her gaze is directed. "Pretty, aren't they?"

She looks to him as if he is mildly insane. _Pretty? _A huge understatement, but then, he's probably used to seeing the stars, probably didn't have a roof over his head for most of his life.

She nods slowly, still looking to the sky, and is surprised when he settles next to her, with a quiet, "See that?" He points to the cluster she's been wondering about, and she nods. "Aveline's Helm." He sees her look of surprise. "We had to study star maps, for navigation. If you're chasing apostates in the middle of a forest, it's useful to know where you're going. I always liked the stories behind the constellations, though - stupid, really."

She leans on her elbows to look at him. "Not stupid at all, Alistair. I used to like wisps, because I discovered you could cluster them together, paint words in light with them. It used to disappear fairly quickly, but... Anders and I got in dreadful trouble, because he stood in the library and formed the word 'arse' in wisps." A smile twitches the corner of her mouth. "Huge letters. Very juvenile. Jowan managed to avoid him a beating that time, though." She sees another row of stars, points. "And that?"

He takes a look, seems to think for a moment, then remembers. "Andraste's Sword. I think. I know that one, but you'd have to ask Leliana about Aveline."

There's always one more constellation, one more name to find; sometimes he remembers the stories, sometimes not, but he always tries to think of _something, _seems to enjoy making her laugh. For a while, they lapse into a comfortable silence, just staring at the sky, but then it begins again.

Sometimes it's not the mythology, but a memory of the Chantry a constellation's brought back; she supplies stories of the Tower, the old favourite of the rabbit explosion in the mages' quarters.

It's like something's been lifted off her shoulders, just for one night. They share a smile, him still talking about Brother Ronald's terrible lute-playing, and she wonders how he can look so peaceful in the midst of all _this._ Then she realises, because her grin is as wide as his own.

Her second dream, after he pours a canteen of water over her face to wake her from the inevitable archdemon nightmare, is of stars and pillow fights in Chantry dormitories, and before she enters the Fade again, she murmurs, "You were right, y'know."

His eyes are still on the sky. "Hmm?"

"They really _don't _make stupid templars."


	42. Haven

**Haven**

**Alistair**

Their welcome to Haven isn't exactly _warm, _and he says as much.

It's still ever-so-slightly warmer than the mountain temperature, however, and raised-in-thick-walls Morgana shivers and pulls his (borrowed. Again. _He really _needs to get her to buy one) cloak closer to her.

The witch has dispensed of her usual flimsy (and, er, sometimes unfortunately distracting) robes, wearing something that looks like it's made out of animal skins and feathers - he tries not to think too hard about _which _animals - while moaning constantly about "such _unpleasant _climes". He grinds his teeth, instead concentrating on their fearless leader.

Morgana tries not to let her frustration show with the gruff guard at the village entrance; she succeeds, but he knows her too well, and the quiet politeness of her tone gives her away.

He raises an eyebrow as they walk on. "Nice one with the guard, by the way."

He receives another raised eyebrow back, and a corner of her mouth twitches, but she says nothing.

The silence of the village is eerie, and he can't help looking back over his shoulder - for a place with such a pretty name, it's a little... intimidating. Where _is _everybody?

Morgana tries talking to a small child playing in the snowy grass, Leliana joining in and cooing over the boy (why does this _not _surprise him?), but gets nowhere. Even he tries, remembering the way he saw adults when he was a child, but there is no success. Morgana gives the boy a smile and walks on.

He frowns at the sound of chanting coming from further up the slope, ignoring Morrigan's dismissive comment and trying to make out the words.

Morgana looks to him. "Know your scripture?"

Of _course_ not - it's only been drilled into him since he was_ ten years old. _In various nastily interesting ways he _really _doesn't want to think about right now. He shrugs. "A little." He listens. "And that's _definitely _not the Chant."

She gives a brisk nod, and, as she puts her hand to her sword, he notices her hand shaking, the small swallow - no matter what she says, she's still unused to using it, though she is more comfortable with it now. He leans in and says quietly, for her ears only, "It may not come to that. And you've _trained _for this." He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and she looks up at him, seeming surprised by the contact. "It'll be fine."

Of course, it _does _come to that.


	43. Templar

_There may be a pause there where I've had to check my screen twice. 100 reviews! Bloody hell. Er, I mean, wow..._

_Thought I might as well pull out most of the stops for the 100 milestone chapter, so... well, let's just say this is another one I've wanted to write since starting _Armour.

_A little violence and oh, please don't hate me for this..._

* * *

><p><strong>Templar<strong>

**Morgana**

There are _mages. _Not Tranquil, either - they're doing this of their own volition.

"We walk into a strange, spooky temple and we get attacked. Why am I _not _surprised?"

She glares at Alistair and sends a half-hearted arcane bolt at a mage. Part of her recoils at the thought of killing her own kind, but then she remembers that they seem to have absolutely no problem with killing _her. _Stunning one with a stonefist, she runs at her, sword slashing into the elf's robes and leaving a trail of blood in its wake.

She looks back at her companions to find in horror that they're getting their arses kicked. Every time Leliana makes any forward progress, she is thrown back by fireballs or stonefists, left gasping for air and picking herself up off the floor.

Alistair's trying his best to wade into the battle, but is having as little success as Leliana.

Only Morrigan, at her side, and herself seem to be having any effect, mostly using magic; they are weaving together spells as fast as possible, occasional nods to each other the only things showing whose spells are which. She guesses that it really _is_ best to fight fire with fire - or magic with magic.

Concentrating intently on how she's using her mana and trying very hard not to get them all _killed_, she is surprised by Alistair's voice in her ear. "Sorry about this, by the way."

Him stepping in front of her. A flash of light.

Anders often described a smite as like having your stomach pulled out of your mouth, and she finds that he was right; what he _didn't _describe was the literal feeling of your blood freezing as the mana stops flowing, disappears. The shock and the feeling of being punched in the stomach send her to her knees, desperately clutching and reaching out for the Fade but finding nothing. All she can think is _it's all gone, it's all gone, it's all gone. _How couldhe_ do _this to her?The protective warmth of magic has disappeared and they are in the middle of a _battle_, for Maker's sake...

She hears Leliana's shocked shouts, the loud _crack _of a slap and the templar's "ow!" as Morrigan calls him something much worse than _fool_, but everything is blurring and _why can't she see...?_


	44. Mage

_Continuation of "Templar"._

* * *

><p><strong>Mage<strong>

**Alistair**

For the first time since he's known her, he thinks he truly understands what she is, why she backed away from him at Ostagar. He's seen what smites do to mages, but it's different when it's _her, _her on her knees and half-delirious_. _His sword clatters to the floor as he turns, catching her just as her head's about to hit the ground. He's screaming every curse he knows in his head (yes, all _five_) at the sight of her so vulnerable. _This_ was why he kept close.

The sting of the witch's slap hasn't yet faded. He looks backwards to see that, as intended, the smite has had the same effect on the attacking mages as his. Morrigan and Leliana seem to have noticed that he's dropped his sword, thank the Maker, and are concentrating on their enemies.

He drops on one knee to try and lower her; she seems to recognise him, and he tries hard to ignore the cries of "you _bastard!"_, though they still make him wince.

He looks behind him again to see that the mages have been finished off, and Leliana and Morrigan are advancing with menacing purpose.

This is _really _not what he needs right now. Like he'd _hurt _her, anyway.

He turns back to her, reaching inside his pack, scrabbling for the lyrium vial and fumbling to open it. For a horror-stricken moment, he wishes he _had _been a templar, that he could do these things... then he remembers that they take it powdered anyway, and tells himself to stop babbling, _do_ something...

He hears someone ask what he's doing, but nothing registers other than her on the floor and the vial in his hand.

He lifts her head, clumsily raising the vial to her lips. The effect is immediate.

Every hair on his spine raises, a thrumming in the air only the two of them can hear, and he struggles not to drop her; as she wakes with a gasp, he swears there's a blue other than the natural in her wide eyes.

* * *

><p><em>There will be an aftermath chapter too, so a double post today; I just have to <em>_**write**__ it first..._


	45. Square One

_Continued from Templar and Mage._

* * *

><p><strong>Square One<strong>

**Morgana**

Something cool being pushed against her lips. The warmth of all the mana coming back, the comfort of magic.

Alistair crouching above her, holding the vial and making "shhh"ing noises; it's comforting, until she remembers _why _he's crouching over her, and then she wants to hurt him all over again.

She does all she can do, kicking out at him and screaming at him to get away from her as she tries to get up off the ground, pick up her sword. It's for his sake as well as her own (though she'd never admit it) - she feels the telltale hum of magic buildup with her fright. He looks up; she knows he feels it too, and somehow that hammers the hideousness of what he's done home. There is a moment of silence, tension drawn like a bowstring, until she settles her breathing, feels the horrible, delicious anticipation seep out of her bones. She looks into his eyes, sees the friend who admired the stars with her, and doesn't have the heart to hold a blade to his throat. He could easily beat her in a straight fight, anyway. She hates both facts, but it's the former that makes her feel so _weak, foolish._

He holds his hands up. "There was a _reason... _we had no chance against magic - "

"I should never have trusted a _templar._" She sees Leliana approach him, stops her with a look.

"I'm not - "

"I don't bloody _care _what you _think _you are!" She steadies her breathing again, shuts down her eyes, lowers the volume of her voice. That's when she sees him swallow. "Lyrium doesn't make you a templar, but what you just did _does._ I am a _mage, _and you are a _templar, _and no matter how much you say we are Grey Wardens, that is _all _we are."

"But I thought - "

She shakes her head, refusing to let him finish the sentence, let him try and appeal to the part of her that was stupid enough to think the Chantry didn't matter. "I am a _mage. _What you did breached all trust."

He looks at her one last time - a long look - before he picks up his sword and sheathes it, ignoring Leliana's lightning fast move at the motion and muttering something that sounds distinctly like, "Back to square one." When he meets her eye next, he has set his face as best he can, but she knows him too well - the cracks are showing. "So... what now?"

She ignores what he _actually_ means. "We find the Ashes, and we try and cure your uncle."

He tries to speak again, but is silenced by a look from Morrigan.

She steps forward, starts to walk past him, and the last words she says before they reach the Ashes are quiet and brittle. "Keep an eye on him."

* * *

><p><em>Well, that's today's update. Done!<em>


	46. Out Of Place

**Out Of Place**

**Morgana**

She stands, awkwardly, staring at the Urn and out of place.

She belongs neither with Morrigan's contempt, nor with Leliana and Alistair's reverence; she isn't quite sure _what _she believes.

Defiling them would be wrong - she can't shake that this was a _woman _once, and, even with good intentions, she feels uncomfortable as she takes the required pinch and laces up the leather pouch, tucking it into her belt and looking to her companions.

Leliana is still staring at the Ashes, seeming a little in shock, and she stands next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "Need a minute?"

Leliana nods, and there is a respectful silence.

* * *

><p>It's only when they camp for the night that she lets her eyes drift to where Alistair's sitting, alone - she wonders where Leliana is - and staring into the fire, pushing down the sympathy that automatically rises within her at the sight. It seems that she's not the only one out of place.<p>

The Orlesian voice is next to her ear before she realises what is happening. "You should speak to him."

She jumps. "Who?" She is surprised Anders ever let her in on his stunts - she's terrible at feigning ignorance.

"I... don't think he meant to hurt you."

She turns to her friend, anger twisting her features. "We aren't made for speed, or strength. Magic is the best power I _have, _and he _took _it. It was a _violation._ Of _course_ it was meant to hurt!"

Leliana listens to what Morgana knows is a tirade even as she says it, then replies, calmly, "He could have just killed you. So why did he give you lyrium?"

She looks to her in surprise. "_He _did that? I thought..."

"We made him? No. _You _did not see his face when you fell."

"I..." She swallows awkwardly. "Oh." She can't help looking over to him again. "But he's..."

"... A templar? I think I have heard this conversation before, no?" A wry smile, which soon falls. "He is still _Alistair. _You are still _Morgana_. More than templar and mage."

A moment of slightly surprised silence. She begins to protest, but Leliana interrupts, standing. "It seems that the stew needs tending_._"

Morgana is left biting her lip, pretending not to watch Alistair out of the corner of her eye.


	47. Bridges

_Anyone who remembers Chemical Bond - chapter 19 - here's some continuity for you. This taint-sense thing seems to be pretty established fanon, so you've probably come across it anyway, but who knows..._

* * *

><p><strong>Bridges<strong>

**Alistair**

He's so _tired._

He's been tired for days, but hadn't really noticed it - the smite took it out of him, though, and he's been exhausted since, has been trudging his way to camp asleep on his feet.

Leliana seemed to give up on "keeping an eye on him" a while ago; he can't say she was doing a brilliant job anyway - surely guards aren't meant to be so _smiley? _After the brief spell of holding one dagger perilously close to him - did she forget that those things are _sharp? _- she'd seemed to relax, sheathed it as he sheathed his sword and strapped back his shield. Then came the sighing and head-shaking, and, "Oh, Alistair." He barely registered the conversation she tried to make, eyes firmly on their noble leader. Who was busy very carefully ignoring him, even when all of them except Morrigan (who, of course, had to make some nasty little comment) were gaping at the Urn. At some point, he let out a sigh of his own, and he returned his eyes to the ground, staying that way until they reached camp.

This is the kind of tired he _hates,_ where every cell in your body is _begging _you to sleep, but your mind refuses to. It's why he's still here, still pretending to look at the fire and not sneak glances at her. He sees Leliana speak to her, sees her look in his direction, and suddenly has to know what she's feeling.

He's learned to block out most of the shared taint - something all Wardens are taught, as a matter of privacy as much as sanity - but now he shuts his eyes a little, letting the alien emotions in and cautiously opening one eye.

Anger, resentment, as expected, and... overwhelming _sadness_. A little unexpected, he has to admit, since from the way she acted, he'd thought she'd be in some sort of death-to-all-templars rage.

He tries to shut out the taint sense again quickly, before the hollowness infects him, but it's a little late now.

This is _ridiculous - _they had no chance against magic, even Morgana and Morrigan were having trouble using their own. There was no other way, and he'd kept the lyrium with them for a _reason..._ He'd never _try _to hurt her; he knows that even if _she _doesn't, but _why _doesn't she? He shakes his head, trying to block out the image of her half-conscious on the ground and the totally unfair guilt it brings with it.

* * *

><p>She dreams of templars.<p>

She talks in her sleep when she's having the nightmares. It was the archdemon, but now it's _templars_, and he pretends not to feel sick to his stomach.

This night just gets better and better.

* * *

><p>The next morning, as he's packing up his tent, there's a sound of wool against wool, and he's surprised to find her standing next to him. She hasn't put her armour on yet, he notices, and something about that makes her seem more... <em>human, <em>familiar, somehow. She refuses to look at him, her expression too many different things at once to read properly, and the word is so quiet he nearly doesn't hear it. "Why?"


	48. Harm

_Very sorry for the long update gap - life did that getting-in-the-way thing again... Anyway, here's a gleaming, brand new chapter by way of apology._

* * *

><p><strong>Harm<strong>

**Alistair**

For a moment, he can only stare at her, feeling surprised and more than a little stupid. "I... what?"

"The smite. Why?"

He opens his mouth a moment, wishing his brain would do that _thinking _thing like it's meant to, closes it again, then finally manages to say something. "Their magic. I... evened the odds?" he tries hopefully.

"You seemed to forget that you had two _mages _in your group," she says, her voice still quiet, her eyes still directed anywhere but at him.

He shakes his head. "The lyrium, remember?"

She finally meets his eye. "I do. Thank you for that." She seems to be concentrating on a nearby shrub. "But... well, if Morrigan had had her way, you'd be on fire as we speak."

He raises an eyebrow, unable to resist. "I doubt I'd be _speaking, _Morgana." He ignores her glare, adding, in more sombre tones, "You _know_ I'd never - " He doesn't know what he was about to say, and trails off awkwardly.

"Never _what?_" There is more curiosity than sharpness in her tone, and he dares to look her in the eye.

"Harm you," he says, simply, voicing what he's been thinking since it happened. He sees Zevran and Leliana smirking (it amazes him that the woman can even _smirk _prettily) and tries to ignore them; he's not even sure why he's embarrassed - it seemed like a perfectly straightforward thing to say in his _head, _but now it hangs in the air like a cloud between them. Her surprised silence doesn't help. "You're a friend. Why would I?" He tries to manoeuvre the canvas of his tent into their shared inventory, failing miserably. Anything for an excuse not to see her face.

"But..." She's frowning, _still _trying to argue. Isn't she?

"Smites can be resisted," he interrupts, before he loses his nerve, "even if they can't be stopped. I'd hoped..."

"Like the sword?" Her voice is small again, and she is gazing up at him in shock. "Why would you - ? But you're a _templar..._"

"Me?" He shakes his head with a hint of a smile. "I don't think so. I can't glare nearly well enough."

Her expression is of bafflement, then exasperation, before settling into something that could be relief or sadness, he's really not sure which - maybe both. "Thank you, Alistair."

No laugh, no smile, just three simple words, but he swears something frees itself behind her eyes. He gives her a smile that he hopes is reassuring, then, as she makes her way to Morrigan, resumes trying in vain to stuff his tent into one of the packs.

* * *

><p><em><strong>In-game justification: <strong>__There is something in canon about smite resistance and the way one reacts to it - it depends on willpower, which can be increased. This isn't going to be written as a quick fix, don't worry._


	49. Crumbling

_Can't in all honesty call this exact canon, but I've tried to keep it as close as possible, so not quite AU._

* * *

><p><strong>Crumbling<strong>

**Morgana**

_Redcliffe Castle_

She wonders why the walls aren't crumbling around her.

Alistair being put forward for the crown. Jowan about to be executed.

She argues for her friend to be freed, talks about how he has helped them all. Her companions stay silent even as she steps forward, looking into the Arl's eyes. The Arl who she's wishing she'd let die. "You _have _to let him free."

The Arl refuses, and she grits her teeth at hearing Jowan's options. Have him killed or send him to the Tower? She isn't sure which is worse.

It can never be simple - she's not stupid. He's a blood mage, they can't just let him live as he did before - they've had the consequences of being a so-called maleficar drilled into them since they could barely pronounce the word. Sending him to the Tower means having him made Tranquil.

She swallows. "I... I can't make that choice. It's not mine to make. I need to see him."

Eamon opens his mouth, and she sees in his eyes he will deny even this to her.

"I _need _to see him."

The Arl still looks doubtful. She looks to her side in surprise at hearing Alistair's voice. "He was her best friend. Give her this, at least. I'll... escort her, if necessary."

The Arl still looks hesitant, but nods.

* * *

><p>Their footsteps echo on the stairway to the dungeons. Silence hangs between them. They both know what they're not saying. <em>Alistair, king?<em>

She speaks, eventually, but it is Jowan she talks about, not the man at her side. "But... he's a _blood mage._"

He looks down at her. "He's also your _friend, _no matter what _I_ think_. _I thought you might want to say goodbye."

"I do."

She is surprised when he stops at the entrance to the dungeons. At her questioning look, he explains, simply, "I _do _trust you, you know."

Thank the Maker Duncan recruited him - he would have made a _terrible_ templar. She determinedly ignores the voice in the back of her mind that says she needs his company (it's not true, anyway, she argues back), nods once, and walks to the cells.

* * *

><p>Even with the supplies she gave him, Jowan is thinner than ever, his skin unhealthily pale. He looks up from where he is slumped against the bars when he sees her, his face brightening in a way so desperate it nearly breaks her heart. "<em>Ana."<em>

She longs to tell him that she can't help him, that there's no way out of this one. "Jowan..." She swallows, and a tear, the first in a long time, escapes. It trickles down her face, cooling quickly in this dank place.

"What's wrong?" He reaches out a hand to brush it away, not quite able to touch her through the bars. Why does that somehow make it so much worse? She steps forward, to his hand, and, as his fingers finally reach her cheek, she meets his eye, then quickly turns her gaze to the floor, not wanting to see his face.

"I tried. Maker, Jowan, I tried. They... they won't let you free - they want to execute you. Or... send you to the Tower. You know what that means."

"They'll make me Tranquil!" he gasps in horror. "The Pact... _please._"

* * *

><p>In the darkness of the Tower library, having sneaked from their dormitories, three apprentices crouched in a corner, features partly obscured by the gathering shadows.<p>

"Well, this is cheery," one of them remarked, sandy blond hair - unusually - loose.

"_Don't, _Anders. This isn't _funny," _another said, dark, shaggy hair even shaggier from his pillow.

"It's funny if I say it is. It was _my _idea," Anders retorted, shooting him a glare.

"Can we just... get on with it?" Morgana quietly interrupted, looking to the both of them.

Anders was, for once, silent, Jowan bowing his head - the two of them clasped hands. Anders' muttered comment of, "_Maker, _your palms are sweaty," didn't exactly _help _Jowan's nervousness. Morgana looked over her shoulder briefly - for templars - before giving them a hand each.

The three of them murmured quietly, "Death before Tranquility," finally meeting each other's eyes. A whisper of magic swept through the air, and then it was gone, the library dark and silent once again.

* * *

><p>She looks Jowan in the eye, nods once, and hugs him as best as she can, bars between them. She spends all of her mana, sees the healing glow coming from her arms, and when he steps away, he is unmarked, his skin a healthier hue.<p>

"Thank you," he says, weary resignation settling in his eyes. He pretends his eyes aren't watering, and she pretends too, a last favour. "Please... tell Lily I love her, if you can. Give her this for me, and... Don't come. Don't watch." He hands her two pieces of parchment.

"Of course." Her voice is quiet, but it echoes in the emptiness of the dungeon. "I... I don't regret a thing."

She walks away slowly, wiping away her tears as they fall, so that neither Jowan or Alistair will see her cry.

* * *

><p>When she reaches Alistair a few short minutes later, most traces are gone. It doesn't matter - even though she doesn't look at him as she passes him in the corridor, he sees her face, her expression, and she sees it mirrored. Even with all that's happened - or maybe because of it - she doesn't have the heart to shake off the hand on her shoulder, warm through the gaps between the armour plates.<p>

They walk on in silence.

* * *

><p>She stands through the Arl's words about the treaties, and then the issue of Jowan raises its head. What is her decision?<p>

Three words. "Make it quick." She turns her back on him, and walks out of the castle.

* * *

><p>The wind at the gates blows Jowan's parchment out of her belt. Alistair hurries to pick them up, as she does, handing them to her. "Morgana..." He looks down at a piece. "One of these is addressed to <em>you<em>."

She takes the pieces, tucking the one on which she sees her name in a separate compartment in her belt. "Thank you." Her voice cracks, and she is angry at its betrayal.

He looks at her for a moment, a long look. "Any time."

They pretend not to watch each other slowly crumble.


	50. A Memory: Morgana

_Some more Jowan - emotionally, things should start looking up soon, but this chapter seemed... necessary, somehow._

_Morgana finally gets her own "A Memory" chapter - more are planned for the others._

* * *

><p><strong>A Memory<strong>

**Morgana**

A dormitory, bathed in the light of the afternoon sun.

The girl, not quite an adolescent but soon to be, heard the bustle as the others pushed and shoved in a crowd to get to the Great Hall and eat. She ignored it, focusing on her hands, pulling up her baggy robe sleeves; a small smile found its way onto her face as she remembered the parts of the Chant about the cleansing power of fire.

She looked up at a loud _crash _and an exclaimed _"Ow!" _from the corridor outside. A bookshelf? "Er... Jowan?"

He limped into view, trying to rub his ankle and nearly falling over in the attempt, eventually making it to her bed. He sat down next to her, following her eyes and staring at her hands as she was, frowning. "Wha - ?"

"Just... look," she interrupted, her voice a half-whisper of amazement. She squinted down at her hands for a moment longer, until a small ball of flame appeared in her palm. Her skin remained intact, the flames flickering merrily.

Alarmed, Jowan jumped up, grabbing her bed covers as he did so. "You'll set the room on fire!"

She just shook her head, still smiling calmly, and he seemed to realise that the flames weren't going anywhere - he cautiously sat down on the bed, dropping the quilts, and stared, entranced. "Is it... is it safe?"

She nodded, gesturing for him to hold his hand out; gingerly, he did, wincing. She put her hand to his and gently tipped the flame ball into it - it moved almost like liquid, spilling onto his palm and righting itself. Her smile grew wider as he stared at the flames, enchanted, and soon his face matched hers.

After a little while, he gave her her fire back. "Can you teach me how to do that?"

"Of course." She clicked her fingers and the fire extinguished itself.

He passed her a small flask, and she opened it, sniffing it cautiously. "Is this one of your teas?"

He nodded, smiling proudly.

She was a truly _average _herbalist, but Jowan seemed to have a gift for it, to the point where she actually _trusted _his concoctions. She sniffed it, took a sip, and considered for a moment. "Mmm. What does it do?"

"I took half the ingredients from a book, and made up the rest. It's meant to... um..." He looked at something written on his hand, frowned, and then held it up in front of her face. "That."

"Re-juva-nate," she read carefully, then smiled. "Oh." She jumped up from the bed, smelling apple pie and taking him by the hand, not caring about the inevitable jokes from Anders and Markus. Jowan carefully put the mixture down on their bedside table - he was in the bunk above hers - before he followed her.

So they tried their best to walk to the Hall, still holding hands - a gangly boy with robes that only came down to mid-calf and a girl who had to lift the hem of hers so they wouldn't trail on the floor, laughing gently at each other and ignoring the blank steel stares of the templars.


	51. Dust

**Dust**

**Alistair**

He watches her through the flames.

She hasn't said a word since they left Redcliffe, spending hours looking into space. Any attempts from Leliana to talk have been met with a shake of her head, or, once, "Now isn't the time."

At this, Leliana had said, "When is?"

Morgana had muttered something that sounded like a slightly broken "_Please," _and carried on walking, eyes ahead and jaw set.

* * *

><p>He thinks that it's probably pure fatigue that has stopped her; she says nothing to any of them as she sets up her tent, quickly and efficiently.<p>

That's how he knows that something is very wrong, how he knew in Redcliffe.

People are always in trouble when she's _quiet _- she's never been a shouter. Hours without conversation, icy politeness, being brisk but cold to those around her... Silence is her loudest scream.

She's been sat for _hours_, just staring into the campfire's flames, refusing the stew Leliana made and not saying a word.

What can he say? It's not like _he's _exactly having it easy. The thought of a heavy crown, suffocating golden armour, makes him nauseous. He doesn't _lead, _he thought they'd established that_ - _not their little group, and certainly not a _nation._

So why does _this_, the death of one more blood mage, bother him so much? Because Jowan was her _friend, _and he realises that he saw himself reflected when the man looked at Morgana.

He hears her inhale sharply, and looks up at the sound.

She is holding a crumpled, folded piece of parchment which he recognises easily, seeing her name written in small, meticulously neat - careful - handwriting. He can't help thinking that the man even _wrote _like he was nervous, trying to please.

Her hands shake as she unfolds it; he sees her swallow as she reads it, hands gripping the sheet more tightly in an effort not to drop it, and she lets out a breath he hadn't realised she was holding. She folds it again, methodically, slowly, putting it back into her pocket and standing; their eyes meet through the flames for a moment, then she pointedly looks away, and all he can hear is the _clank_ of every armoured step, fading as she walks into the woods at the outskirts of the camp.

He stares after her, wanting to kick himself for not comforting her, but, he thinks again, what can he say?

His thoughts return to Eamon's words - they've hardly been away from them - , to this "right", this throne, forced upon him, and his mouth is suddenly dry.


	52. All That We Have Lost

**All That We Have Lost**

**Leliana**

"She just won't... _talk _to me," Alistair says, despairingly. "She hasn't spoken to anybody since... _Jowan._"

She looks at him, and says, calmly, "She will find you when she is ready."

It is true - the two Wardens have carried each other through this Blight. Morgana needs him.

She wonders whether Morgana herself has realised this yet.

* * *

><p>The others have all retired to their tents, getting what sleep they can (especially Alistair, who, like Morgana, tries to make the most of any he can have in between the awful nightmares) but Morgana is still sitting, staring into the fire. She doesn't even look up when Leliana sits next to her.<p>

They have sat there for a couple of minutes, when she murmurs, "I should have let him go."

"Morgana?"

Now she finally looks at her, and there are unshed tears in her eyes. "I should have just told him to run, to go, _something_. He _wanted _to help."

_Ah. And so the wall collapses, _Leliana thinks to herself, wrapping an arm round Morgana and hugging her close. They watch the fire together, and after a moment, Leliana has an idea.

She remembers a song she heard the first time she came to Ferelden - it is a song of absent friends, of grief. She would hear it often, and for a long time she wondered if the song was haunting her.

Music opens people, bonds them.

She asks Morgana if she knows it. She nods, and Leliana sees a light come on behind the woman's eyes. She passes her friend her old lute, and she strums the first few notes; it is halting at first, probably learned from a book and not played in a long time, but as she relaxes into the music, it comes more easily, the notes flowing. Leliana begins the verse, and after a few lines, she hears the other woman's voice join in - quiet, under-used, but it has the potential to be strong. A little like its owner, she supposes.

She smiles briefly to Morgana, who gives her a small half-smile in return, and, in the light of the dying fire, they sing for all they have lost.


	53. Firewood

_A short and simple, talky chapter. Anyone else noticed that Morgana keeps using the excuse of "gathering firewood" when she wants to be left alone?_**  
><strong>

* * *

><p><strong>Firewood<strong>

**Alistair**

_Thwack. Thwock._

He frowns at the sound.

_Thwack._

Eventually, he _has _to find the source, because it's driving him mad; he gets up, walking cautiously towards it.

_Thwack._

Morgana is standing in a clearing in the woods, attacking some fallen branches with an axe they found in Redcliffe.

_An axe? _

He can't help himself; curiosity overcomes caution, and, leaning against a tree-trunk, he watches her technique. She is still gripping it a little tightly, still nervous and slower than him, but he can see that she's getting better - her hits don't miss as they used to, and there is more ease in her movements than there was. She has much to learn, but the lessons have paid off, and, in that moment, he's never been prouder.

He remembers Leliana's words: "_She will find you, when she is ready."_ Or not. The Maker works in mysterious ways, it seems.

He stays there a couple of more minutes before he has to say something ridiculous, because, well... he's _him_. "It's probably a bad idea to surprise a woman with an axe, right?"

_Thwock._

"You didn't surprise me," she says quietly, briefly tapping a finger to her head but not turning round. "Taint, remember?"

The first words she's spoken to him in three days, and his heart lifts. "Oh." He walks towards her. "What are you doing?"

"Gathering firewood."

_Thwack. _He winces at the sound.

She wipes her brow, finally turning round, and gives him a small, sad, half-smile - still a smile, however, and he wonders what's changed - before sitting down on a log. He'd thought he heard singing - _her _singing - last night, but he's also pretty sure it was his imagination. She takes off the armour until she is sitting in a simple tunic - still with metal boots on, though. The sight is almost comical. She sighs. "Alistair... do you _want _the throne?"

He looks at her in horror. "_Maker, _no! If I _had _to..." He trails off, joining her on the log. "Do you think Eamon's right? That I should?"

She looks away. "I honestly don't know. I don't believe your blood should define you, but, in the end, I'm not sure you'll get the choice." She swallows. "And I hate seeing that."

"I... what?"

Now her eyes are back to him. "I was raised in the _Tower, _Alistair. I've had old men telling me who I should be all my life. You, in the Chantry. You _know _how it feels."

He releases a breath in a weak attempt at a laugh, knowing that she isn't joking. "Old men. Yes, I suppose you're right." He looks to the axe she has set down. "You've improved, you know. With an axe, you're..." He searches for the right word. "... Frightening," he manages.

She laughs then, a _true _laugh, the first he's heard from her in what seems like such a long time, and the sound makes him smile. "Thank you. I think. Are you up to teaching?"

He looks at her, cocks his head to one side. "I suppose so. And about the anti-smite training..."

She raises her eyebrows."You were _serious_ about that? I thought you weren't meant to give away Chantry secrets."

She remembers him saying that? "That was before I threw a holy smite at you..." He makes a dismissive hand gesture. "...O heathen apostate."

Too soon? For a moment, he's convinced himself she's about to hit him, but then she slaps a palm to her face instead, trying not to smile. "Oh, _Alistair_."

Now they're here, on their own terms, and not _running away or waving a sword_ at something, he says, quietly, "I'm sorry. But it was necessary."

She swallows. "I know. I'm still not sure I agree, but... _some_ part of me knows."

"Are you... all right?"

She spots that he's asking about Jowan, and her eyes slide to the floor. "Thank you. And... no." Now she looks at him, _really _looks at him, and smiles. "But I will be."

They walk back to camp together, her boots clanking and him carrying _all _the firewood (of course). He's really starting to wonder whether he should stop with this whole chivalry thing.


	54. Grimoire

**Grimoire**

**Morgana**

She is walking to her pack, cursing the Grey Warden appetite, when she nearly trips over something.

She looks down, crouching and finding a book tucked underneath one of the tent corners, as if meant to be hidden. _Probably one of Wynne's yarns_, she thinks, carrying it over to a tree stump where she's sitting.

It is large, bound with an unfamiliar animal skin that is not _quite _black; it's also heavy, and it takes her a moment to open it.

Instead of a badly-written romance, there is a picture of a flower, with parts labelled, and list of ingredients for various mysterious teas. She only realises her mouth is open when she closes it.

_Morrigan._

She is about to close it when something catches her eye; she opens it fully. At the start of the book, the writing is a spidery scrawl - it reminds her of her handwriting when she was about nine - with surprisingly few misspellings; towards the recent entries, hundreds of pages later, it is more refined, precise, but occasionally, especially in some paragraphs that look hastily written, she sees traces of the little girl's handwriting. She must have had this for _years. _She pays little attention to the writing, however, because she is distracted by the drawings.

They start as vague shapes, and, as the handwriting becomes neater, change to sketches of plants she is _sure _she has seen in the Wilds, as well as a few animals (some she can't even name) - all are painfully careful, precise. She finds herself open-mouthed once again.

Then she finally begins to read the text - while about a quarter are the expected ingredients, notes on spells, many are... _diary entries? _She looks away quickly, trying to respect the woman's privacy, before her eye is drawn to a picture of Flemeth.

Simple, realistic - as far as she knows - and years old; the Flemeth in this is younger, drawn sat frowning at the sky, as if hoping to find something there.

The tales are true, at least in some respects - the woman is beautiful, a little of her daughter about her in the swan neck, around the mouth and eyes.

Morgana swallows. She knows that this is not her book, these are not her thoughts, that she should close it - and she _wants _to - but she finds herself flicking to the latest entries.

What she finds there makes her stop, nearly drop the book. As well more studies of flowers and animals, there are pictures of their little group, every feature, every frown line or upward turn of the mouth captured: Leliana strumming her lute, a contented smile upon her face; Wynne, licking a finger to turn the page of a book Morgana now recognises as _The Rose Of Orlais; _Zevran polishing his daggers, an eyebrow raised, on paper even down to the ever-present mischievous glint in his eye; Sten and Brian, teeth bared, each attempting to intimidate the other.

The last makes her smile, a strange warmth filling her at the memory - her sat on the ground, sword beside her, after being bested yet _again _by her fellow Warden, while he offers her a hand to help her to her feet; they are battered, bruised, exhausted, and _grinning _at each other.

There is something in the drawings that makes her stop and look at them, and it takes a moment to name it - a certain sense of... wistfulness; they are always drawn from the view of an observer, never involved, but warmth shines through each of them. They are drawn in the same way as the others, as if they are something new and exciting, watched carefully, a sense of... well, if she didn't know Morrigan better, she'd call it affection, in every line. Precisely studied they may be, but they are certainly not _cold._

The thought of Morrigan, alone, sitting and watching all this, makes her suddenly feel sorry for the witch, and more than a little guilty. She crouches, carefully sliding the journal back under Leliana's tent, as if it has never been moved, and makes a promise to ask Morrigan about that strange black book, not unlike her own, that they found in Irving's office.


	55. Secrets

**Secrets**

**Alistair**

He jolts awake, breathing heavily, letting the remnants of the nightmare fade, then, exhaling, falls back onto his bedroll. He listens to the sounds of the night, debating with himself whether to try and sleep or get up and ... _do _something. He isn't sure what. The sounds of crickets reach his ears, and then the _patter _of rain on the canvas. He instantly thinks of Morgana, wondering why this seems to have become _her _weather to him now, and manages to make a decision. He'll get up. _Not _because she might be awake from a nightmare too, that's just ridiculous, but because he has jobs to do. Yes. Jobs.

As he stumbles out of the tent, still bleary-eyed and half-asleep, the sound of female voices reaches his ears; one of them is Orlesian, and they're coming from the woods - as if they've gone somewhere they don't want to be heard. The rain manages to jolt him awake, and he can't help but listen to the conversation; he stays as quiet as possible, sitting by the dead campfire (the ground isn't _too _wet yet) and using the "you can't see them, they can't see you" principle.

"Where exactly did you hear this?"

"A history book. I was a _Tower mage_, Leliana - we _read._"

"Amongst other things, I hear." He can _hear _the raised eyebrow in Leliana's voice, and cringes, remembering what the templars said about the mages' promiscuity.

"That's not true! Well, maybe _some_ of it, Anders had every girl in the Tower - " He frowns, hoping that number didn't include _her. _It bothers him, somehow. " - But that's beside the point. Is it _true_?"

"I suppose it is. In Orlais..."

Morgana's anger is quiet, icy, and she rarely interrupts anyone, but now she is loud, aghast. "You just... _neglected to mention _that you were a _bard?_"

"I _was. _I am not now, so why should it matter?"

Rain's dripping down the back of his neck, and he has to stifle a cough.

Leliana sighs. "Alistair, stealth has never been your _forte_."

He heads towards the voices, soon finding himself in front of the two women, slightly shamefaced. "I... ah... archdemon nightmare?" he tries, cautiously.


	56. Bard

**Bard**

**Leliana**

It's like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders, telling her.

Their dear Alistair, having unceremoniously crashed through various shrubs and hurriedly brushing leaves out of his hair, stands and listens.

She sees Morgana frown, still breathing heavily after her earlier outburst. "She was your lover?" At seeing her worried expression, hearing her hasty half-explanation, her friend swiftly adds, "That was common in the Tower. I'm not _quite _that naive, Lel."

She gestures for her to continue, and she does, sketchily, leaving out some of the more... _interesting _details.

After a while, Morgana nods. "I assume you'd be safe, seeing as you're in Ferelden now..." She sighs, giving her a small smile. "Thank you for being... somewhat honest with me."

She returns the smile, and, as the two Wardens crash back through the woods ahead of her, she catches Alistair's comment. "Explains why she's so good with a blade, at least. I wish she'd told us sooner - her past could be... well, _dangerous_."

"_You're_ one to be talking about keeping secrets." There's a long, uncomfortable silence, clear hurt emanating from Alistair's direction, before Morgana speaks again, her voice quieter now. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair. It's been... an odd night."

"No, it really wasn't." A pause. "But... I _might_ forgive you, if there's cheese involved."

Morgana attempts a laugh. "Of course. And, Alistair? What I said in Redcliffe - still true. Doesn't change anything for me. It just... might for Ferelden."

He sighs. "How many times? I don't _want _this. I'm a bastard, I wasn't _raised _to be king."

"I know, and I'm sorry. None of this is right, or fair, and no-one can choose which parents they're born to." Her voice drops, the last sentence quieter than the others. "_Life_ isn't fair."

Silence follows them back to camp.


	57. Interesting Monsters

_Updates have been a bit slower lately due to the fact that I'm working on multiple fics ("long time, no write"), but I haven't abandoned _Armour. _Here's a chapter to prove it...  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Interesting Monsters<strong>

**Morgana**

They camp a few metres away from the Brecilian Forest, after guessing that they'd find the Dalish somewhere close to woodland.

She sits in silence, just looking at the trees; she can't help thinking that they look like the illustrations in the books of old tales - dark, lush forests, usually with a few interesting monsters within. The crackling, yellowing pages, the paper and the pictures, were the closest she got to real trees for years.

She sees Zevran, poised in a way that is carefully casual, eyes flickering around the camp and taking in every detail, as if he, too, is waiting for something to attack them. She has seen Leliana like this many times before, though she never used to think much of it then, and has come to think of it as "the assassin's look" - the trademark of those who deal in lies and carefully placed daggers.

She voices her thoughts of the Forest, though she has never spoken much to him, and he laughs. There is something distinctly... _wolfish _in his smile, and it makes the hairs on the back of her neck rise. "In the woods? No, my dear Warden. Monsters are _everywhere_."

* * *

><p>She knows she isn't imagining the rustling around the edges of the forest, the twigs snapping around the edge of their camp, and she can't shake the feeling that something - <em>someone? <em>- is watching them.

After trying to sleep and failing, ears tuned for every small sound around her, she climbs, bleary-eyed, out of her tent and decides to relieve Alistair of his watch - it's not like she'll accidentally fall asleep, after all. They usually take it together, but, trying to be kind, he told her to get some sleep.

He gives her a tired smile as she joins him at the campfire. "Something wrong?"

She shakes her head, and silence falls, but then she can't stop herself. "Is something... _here?_"

He frowns, seeming to stop to... _listen? _What to? "The Veil's pretty thin here. It's probably making you uneasy."

Ah. The templar training. For a pleasant moment, she'd forgotten about _that_.

He gives her another smile as he speaks. "But you knew that, right?"

Recent magic has been performed, she can sense it. She nods, because she's a mage - she can _touch _the Veil, if she wants to. That's not the point. "Something... _here, _though. Not the Fade."

He shrugs, emitting an attempt at a laugh. "The Dalish have found us first?"

Her reply is quiet, her mind absent, remembering the tales, the things she read. "Oh, I hope not."


	58. The Smell Of Freedom

_Wow - the 150-review milestone has finally been hit! Thanks everyone, for taking the time to give feedback on this little writing experiment._

_If you're wondering about this and the other chapter: I've been writing like Zev isn't even in the party, and, well... shouldn't he be a bigger deal?_

_This whole chapter was inspired by Anders' little comment on the tree in Awakening._

* * *

><p><strong>The Smell Of Freedom<strong>

**Morgana**

She cannot help but be angry at their treatment. She sees the glances, the _glares,_ sneaked at her; sees the hands tightening on daggers, the jaws clenching, Zevran's expression of absolute non-surprise.

Of course she understands how it feels to be misunderstood, mistreated, have freedom taken from you - she's a _mage, _for Andraste's sake.

The word starts as a small whisper, growing louder and used more often as they walk through the camp, and she listens to it carefully, spotting Leliana's expression - one of sadness and tension. It takes her a while to work out what it means.

It does not matter what their intentions are, that she is a mage - she, Alistair and Leliana are _shemlen; _she doesn't care if it only means "human" - she sees the word spat in dark corners, sees people's faces turn away, and knows it is meant to hurt_. _Her race is an_ insult. _

Alistair is looking nervously around them, too, and he looks at her, eyebrows raised. "We probably shouldn't overstay our welcome," he murmurs, and she nods, mouth suddenly dry.

She hears the beginnings of a story, sees Leliana turn towards the sound; even with the looks they receive, natural scholar's curiosity, honed by years in the Tower, overwhelms her, and can't help but cautiously approach the sound.

* * *

><p>That is how they hear the tale of the Dales being stolen, one which she knew, but only vaguely. She sits on the woodland floor - an action slightly uncomfortable in splintmail - and Alistair joins her, similarly awkward. He gives her a grin as he notices their mutual armour troubles, and she returns it.<p>

She keeps half an ear on the story, genuinely interested, but can't take her eyes off the trees, foliage swaying above her in the wind. She remembers Anders describing to her just this; he used to call the scent of fresh pine "the smell of freedom". She'd frown at the expression, not understanding, but as she sits here, breathing in the forest, she thinks she finally knows what he means.

For her, it isn't pine - it's the smell of earth and grass after rain, the smell of woodsmoke.

_Woodsmoke? _She wonders where she could have found the smell; she wasn't thinking of the campfire. Besides, she can smell it now, so it can't be _that..._

She is snapped back to reality by the _clank_ of metal as her fellow Warden shifts beside her; he still hasn't taken his eyes off the elf, eyes curious, his brow crinkling slightly as he listens. She finds herself simply watching his expression out of the corner of her eye, wondering what he is thinking.

The unfamiliar ache in her chest - caused by memories of Anders? - stays until they stand up, brushing themselves off, and give their thanks for the story.


	59. Trees

_I guess this is another viewpoint on "The Smell Of Freedom", so you might want to read the last chapter before this one, if you haven't._

_I had a little time on my hands, so it'll be a double update today - enjoy._

* * *

><p><strong>Trees<strong>

**Alistair**

The walk through the forest is slow, the atmosphere tense and uneasy.

_Werewolves. _Well, nothing can ever be easy - they came to recruit the Dalish, so of course they end up hunting _werewolves._

He sighs, and sees Morgana look to him at the sound; then she turns back, looking ahead, except... not _ahead. Up. _He follows her gaze, but all he sees are trees, the light through the leaves throwing patterns on the ground. He looks again, but it still seems to be the trees that have transfixed her - much as she is trying to hide it, it's the canopy above them that her gaze keeps darting to. What, has she never seen a _tree _before?

Oh. Well, she's probably not seen a _forest_. The thought brings an ache to his chest as he thinks about _why _that is.

He remembers the way she sits in camp occasionally, when she can't sleep and she thinks no-one is awake, a book on her lap - she brought a few from the Tower - eyes sparkling in the firelight as she frowns, taking in every word like it's her last. He never has the heart to disturb her; she seems so... _happy, _somehow_, _so different from the apprentice thrown into a tainted world that she seems to think doesn't want her.

Suddenly, he can just _see _her as a girl, sat the same way, brushing away fair hair that falls into her eyes as she frowns at a book; already accepting that she'll never see the outside world, already trapped.

He looks to her in front of him and swallows, suddenly struck with the ridiculous urge to... _protect _her?

She looks back as they reach the side of a river, giving him a smile, and he returns it, catching up with her.

"Are you all right?" she asks him. "You look... pale."

"I'm _fine_, Morgana," he replies, sighing at her worrying, and in that moment, he finds, to his surprise, that he is.


	60. Interdependence

_The promised second update. A slightly more... visceral chapter, this time - I'm not one for pointless, gratuitous fight scenes (and, frankly, not very good at them), but I kept wanting to balance out the invincible, video game element with the "sympathetic character that can be hurt" and teamwork elements; this is what came out of that. Some purely experimental, probably one-off violence.  
><em>

_To refer to chapter 15: I write healers as feeling sympathetic pain from others, to know what to heal. Odd little theory, but it seemed to fit._

* * *

><p><strong>Interdependence<strong>

**Morgana**

The wolves are upon them before they can think, before they can _breathe - _a mass of gnashing teeth, claws and fur. She falls backwards under the weight of one of them, letting out a curse before pushing it off her with the combined force of a stonefist and then her sword; she scrabbles for purchase as the wolf reels, earth finding its way under her nails, until a larger, calloused hand is on hers, pulling her up and away from the beast. His arm still under her shoulders, steadying her, Alistair gives her a small smile and then steps back into the fighting.

She swallows, looking round and seeing Leliana fall; she pushes out the mana, feeling a sudden echo of pain in her knee and hip, and panics. _Broken? _

She counts on Morrigan and Alistair to take the fight, backing away from the remaining wolves and running to her friend.

The woman is slumped by the fallen wolf, nearly lying on the floor; she's breathing heavily, pulling herself slowly up on a tree, and looks up at her approach, giving her a smile that's beautiful even through blood. Morgana presses a hand to the former bard's thigh, feeling the warmth flow outwards and pulling the bone back into place. Leliana winces once, then stands, brushing herself off. "Let's get this over with, shall we?"

They exchange smiles and run back into the battlefield, Morgana letting loose a storm of ice; it's then that she's caught with a claw, gasping and staggering back, feeling its breath on her face. She touches her cheek, her hand coming away bloody, and suddenly Alistair is in front of her, the words next to her ear her ear even now, through his gritted teeth in the middle of a fight. "Get behind me."

She nods and obliges, his shield in front of her, then exhales slowly, shaking his pain from her hand and wincing. Three broken fingers. She touches a hand to her cheek, feeling the gashes begin to close, and then blinks, concentrating; she sees his hand waver on the shield as her magic works, then he's gripping it harder and she's stepping forward, beside Morrigan, the mage looking to her with a furious smile on her face. She holds aside her sword, adding her own flames to Morrigan's, and soon the last wolf falls.

Alistair sheathes his sword, giving her a grin. "Well, _that_ was..." He pauses, bringing a hand to his brow and sighing. "Thank the Maker for healing."

"Thank Andraste for shields," she counters, grinning, not seeing the surprise cross his face.


	61. Boy

_Yes, a Wynne chapter - well, I wanted to explore **everyone's **POV (though I have no idea how I'd write Sten...) and this seemed story-important._

* * *

><p><strong>Boy<strong>

**Wynne**

Sometimes, when she sees Alistair, she can't help but wonder about her own son - where he is, _who _he is, now; whether he ever wonders about where he came from...

She shuts her eyes, breathing in, ignoring the sound of the Dalish.

Sometimes, there are tears; they are rarer now, but some wounds never quite heal, and there are nights she can no longer shut out the gaping emptiness where her child should be.

Of course, he would be a man now. The thought of having missed his childhood pains her more than she wants to admit, and she ignores the unshed tears that briefly make her vision swim, blinking them away and pursing her lips. She would have liked to meet him at least once before her time came.

She notices the assassin watching her as he sharpens his dagger, something in his expression she can't quite fathom, and looks away from his gaze, her mind wandering back to the Wardens in the forest around them.

So young. So naïve, though Amell tries hard to hide it - she was the same even at the Tower, and, in her eyes, the diplomatic, sword-wielding Warden will never quite replace the shivering little girl, kicking and screaming as she was taken into the Circle's security.

Then, of course, there is Alistair, joking, bashful, yet stronger than he will ever give himself credit for; there is something surprisingly pure, _good _with nothing to be gained from it, in him that she has not seen for such a long time.

She sighs, remembering the night he'd come to her holding a rose, nearly tripping over in his awkward denial when she asked jokingly if it was for her. At her questioning look, he haltingly explained that he'd found it in Lothering, the usual shield of humour traded for the burden of fragile hope. She enchanted it, of course. She understands.

Beauty is rare, fleeting, in this world; one must take it where one can find it.


	62. Trust

_So... anyone remember the smite episode? (Chapters 43 - 48, 53) You can become more resistant to them if you build willpower with mental exercises._

* * *

><p><em>"About the anti-smite training..."<em>

_"You were serious about that? I thought you weren't meant to give away Chantry secrets."_

_"That was before I threw a holy smite at you, O heathen apostate." _

~Alistair and Morgana, Chapter 53: Firewood

* * *

><p><strong>Trust<strong>

**Morgana**

"Do you trust me?"

Honey eyes meet hers, the sincerity of the question clear in his voice. It should be simple, but just the words make her breath catch. There is a moment of silence; she looks at his outstretched hand, and it hits her abruptly that she _does. _She _does._

She nods, takes his hand, and shuts her eyes, letting the note of the hum build up in her throat and blocking out everything else, until there are no thoughts, no other noises, no oppressive, werewolf-filled forest around their camp, just that one note.

She has never tried this method of meditation before; the way the templars do it is different, isn't it? Yet, he taught this to her - the thought of him sitting humming is oddly comical; it breaks her focus, and she has to begin again. Nothing but the one note, she reminds herself.

When she opens her eyes, he has just the hint of a smile. "Very nice." It turns to a look of worry. "Are you sure you're ready?"

She nods, and he shoots her one last worried look, then, still keeping tight hold of one of her hands, spreads one of his. The meditation means that she doesn't even panic when she sees the briefly blinding light of the smite. Her knees begin to buckle as she feels the mana disappear, but, perfectly calm, she tries to steady herself. It doesn't work; where the smite would normally repel the mage, Alistair swiftly pulls her in to stop her falling, and they end up in an accidental, awkward hug, his stubble scratching her ear.

Well, that's her focus gone to the Void, she thinks, ignoring the odd tightness in her chest again - almost _nausea._

He steps away, barely able to look her in the eye, and she very nearly laughs as he rubs his neck, eyes fixed firmly on the ground. "Er, good. You're getting better, I mean." He gives her a smile, and she returns it, barely able to believe that he's teaching her Chantry secrets, and at the cost of his dignity.

Her stew is nearly as hideous as his, but she gives him an extra helping that night anyway - it's the thought that counts, after all, and the Grey Warden appetite isn't discerning.


	63. Nobody

_Double update! Sorry for the utter lack of warning, inspiration just hit me. _

_From a dialogue option I always chose when possible, because it was in-character._

_You know the score - world, characters, mythos, official lines herein are all BioWare's._

* * *

><p><strong>Nobody<strong>

**Alistair**

The thought comes to him out of the blue, as he watches her grimace at her own stew - the sight brings a smile to his face, though it is one of pity.

She is a Grey Warden. _The _Warden, according to the rumours flying round Ferelden, which, thankfully, always seem to ignore him. Yet she never flaunts it.

He remembers her words in Lothering, when asked who she was: "Nobody important. I'm... just passing through."

An utter, utter lie. She always seems to say it, though, pretending she's just one more person on the street, unless she _has_ to explain who she is. He frowns.

He always assumed it was to avoid Loghain's men, to avoid bloodshed - she always tries to, after all; her expression after they had to kill those refugees looking for the bounty in Lothering...

Just idiots with swords. Innocent men who wanted to feed their families. He'd felt more than a little sick after that fight, but she'd closed up, just standing, looking at the bodies, refusing to take supplies from them, her words as they walked away simply, "Not their fault. Loghain's."

She hadn't talked to him much then, but he remembers that. He remembers, too, her expression, after he'd told her about his father, at what he'd called himself. He was, he _is, _just another nobody too lucky to die with the rest of the Grey Wardens.

She'd turned back to him then, met his eye, her voice quiet and her brows set in a frown. "That's not really what you think, is it?"

Thinking about all the times she's called herself "no-one important", he wants to ask her the same, because the thought frightens him.

That's not _really_ what she thinks, is it?


	64. Wrongs

**Wrongs**

**Leliana**

She is sharpening her daggers when Morgana sits down beside her with her sword, beginning to do the same; she has that look about her, as if she needs to say something, and Leliana glances at her curiously. Morgana begins, cautiously, "I keep thinking... In the stories, the best kings are always the ones who understand the common people. The... unwilling ones."

She sighs. _Ah. Alistair. _Why is she not surprised? The man and what's best for him are all Morgana seems to think about these days. A thought comes to her then, and she shakes her head - she is being foolish, has told too many sagas of romance. "Those who grasp for power often cannot hold it," she remarks, shifting slightly.

Morgana nods, and there is something sad behind her eyes as she explains, "I just don't _know. _I don't _want _him to have to learn how to lie and smile to people, to be... _trapped. _He's smart, but he's not able to grasp _grey."_

"Sometimes, one must do wrongs for the greater good."

"We talked about it once. You know what he said?"

Leliana shakes her head, and she has to smile as Morgana comes out with almost exactly Alistair's occasionally stuttering tones, just feminine.

"'But then all the little wrongs make a larger wrong, and that wrong takes away all the right...' I think he felt a bit stupid, because he stopped then, but I know what he meant. The worst thing is... I agree."

Leliana raises her eyebrows - there is no doubt, the woman is slightly naïve (a life in the Tower does that, she supposes), but she admires what she is trying to say, what she is trying to _do_: always the right thing.

She wishes she could still believe that, but she has committed so _many _little wrongs. The thought stays with her as she talks about Denerim, hoping to distract her - after all, she's good at that. "Have you ever worn a dress?"

Morgana seems to balk at the thought of it. "I might have, when I was very young. I... don't remember." She frowns, and her voice is suspicious as she asks, "_Why?"_

"We simply _must _take you shopping. Perhaps when we return to Denerim?"

The other woman's expression of horror at imagining this is, she must say, a surprise.


	65. Charms

_Just something I noticed during the Sacred Ashes level and decided to have a play around with. Both of these items can actually be found in the inventory - the necklace that intrigued me is named Reflection, and the other is simply a "runic worry token"._

_This slightly references chapter 62, "Trust" (anti-smite lessons)._

* * *

><p><strong>Charms<strong>

**Alistair**

He's unsure whether to look forward to or dread another lesson; she's got better with both smites and her sword, it's true, and she seems happier with every improvement, but the first time they tried smite resistance was... well, _embarrassing._

He looks across the fire to see Morgana frowning at something, turning it over in her fingers. He can't help wondering what it is, and, when she looks up from it, she catches him staring; she raises an eyebrow, and he finds himself walking round and sitting next to her. He sighs, resting on his hands, then looks to her. "Anything interesting?"

She looks up. "It's just..." She looks away. "It sounds ridiculous."

She wouldn't spend so long thumbing it for something ridiculous, he's sure of it; he notices the chain and realises that it's a necklace with a mirrored pendant. It surprises him - usually, the things she keeps are practical, the only exception being the occasional book and Leliana's eyeshadow. "Didn't think you were one for jewellery," he remarks.

"I'm not. It's... In the Gauntlet, the... whatever-it-was... it looked like Jowan - it gave this to me." She holds her hand out, gently tipping it into his hand, and he turns it over, surprised to see a Chantry symbol - with how he's heard her talk, he wouldn't expect her to keep something with Andraste's fire on it.

Her voice is quiet, cautious, when she asks him, "Can you... see anything?"

He raises his eyebrows - _see _anything? -turns it to the mirror side and frowns into it. There's nothing there except his own reflection - well, of _course _he can see that. _Wait... _It swims and changes, and he catches a glimpse of long hair, a smile he recognises in every one of his own... _Cailan? _No, there are subtle differences, and when it clicks, he nearly drops the pendant, catching it quickly, and looks to her. "Did you... ?"

She nods. "I saw... I think it was my mother." At his questioning look, she explains, sighing, "Same eyes. Same hair. You?"

He stares into the mirror, but the image is gone, and his eyes return to hers. "My father." The word tastes strange on his tongue. "I... saw my father."

There's a thoughtful silence until she says, "I kept it. It's comforting somehow, though I feel foolish saying it."

He hands it gently back to her, and then takes out the token. "Stupid?" He shakes his head. "Hopeful, maybe." She stares at it, and he drops it gently into her palm with a half-smile, adding, "Darkspawn ambush. My first."

She looks at it carefully, reading the runes, and there's a whisper of magic as she runs a finger over it, reading, "Hope. Light. Home." She looks up, her expression curious. "These are Tevinter."

"I found it on an emissary. It had probably used it for power." He doesn't say the rest - that there had been something... warm, soothing about it, like an embrace. He can feel the magic flowing through it every time he touches it, spent three days refreshing his runes trying to decipher it. "But, yes. Hope, light, home - seemed about right to fight against darkspawn with, I guess." He shrugs, and slips it back into his pocket when she hands it to him, standing.

He's walking across camp to take his sword, her doing the same where she is, when he turns at the sound of her voice. "Alistair?"

"Morgana?"

She gives him a smile, and, just for a moment, he thinks that it's a shame she doesn't more - she seems to light up. "Thank you."

He nods, suddenly feeling awkward. "Not a problem." He reaches for his armour, and his heart clenches at the thought of smiting her, an almost physical pain.

Well, at least this time it's with her permission.


	66. Exhaustion

_I kept thinking about training sessions, Warden nightmares, all that sort of thing... they must really take it out of a person. This chapter was, rather appropriately, inspired by the Eels song "I Need Some Sleep". Enjoy._

* * *

><p><strong>Exhaustion<strong>

**Morgana**

It finally catches up with her after they take the ancient "poet-tree"'s branch; the barrier is suddenly too much, too mysterious. She sees the claw marks from their previous fights with the wolves; she sees Morrigan, sighing and leaning against a wall, supposedly out of boredom; she hears Leliana's still-ragged breathing, her friend giving her a smile and quickly standing straighter when she notices that she's being watched; she sees Alistair's worried expression - probably having the same thoughts as her - and his looser grip on his sword, hanging limply by his side and still slightly bloody. He gives her a crooked half-smile, but, in the same moment, brings his hand up to massage the bridge of his nose. She recognises that all too well.

"I _think_ we should make camp before we advance on the wolves," she says, looking round at the group; her tone is questioning, but she's almost sure of their answers. "Does anyone protest?"

Her fellow Warden shakes his head with a sigh of relief, Leliana's smile grows wider, and Morrigan stands straighter. That settles it, then.

They walk until they find running water, and she, Leliana, Wynne and Morrigan move away from the camp to bathe.

* * *

><p>She receives a rather unpleasant surprise when she looks at her own reflection; she <em>swears <em>those dark circles weren't under her eyes before. Leliana, who, of course, looks as fresh as ever, tells her, "This trip has taken its toll on us all. You are not the only one, I assure you." That's when the powder comes off, the water around the former bard turning a light grey as she washes her face, and Morgana spots her rubbing sleep out of her eyes, sees the same circles beginning to appear around the other woman's eyes.

Even after all this time, she still hates removing splintmail, and she wrinkles her nose at the task; what is underneath it, however, is a surprise. The slight softness from years in the Tower library - except for Anders, mages weren't exactly famed for their regular exercise - has faded, replaced by what seems like muscle, and she is no longer weighed down when carrying her armour. She turns her hands over in the water, unsure whether to be proud or dismayed at the new calluses, eventually just ignoring them and soaking in the water, glad of it.

* * *

><p>Sleep doesn't last long. It never does, for a Warden.<p>

She gasps as she wakes, images of the great, tainted dragon still flickering behind her eyelids, and, after pulling on a tunic, crawls out of her tent.

She slumps to the ground next to Alistair, who gives her a brave attempt at a smile, his own eyes still clouded with the remnants of sleep. "Long night, huh?"

She stretches, then sighs, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes. "Mmm. Another one."

Usually, they stay with each other long after the others are sleeping, trying to delay the inevitable, but they both needed to rest; it seems the Archdemon has denied them even that, however, and, still bleary-eyed, they stare at the fire.

"It's different now, with the smites," he says quietly, and she looks to him, puzzled. "They take it out of you. It's even worse without lyrium."

She remembers the way he always seems to slump slightly after one, remembers how drained he seems after each lesson. It's never occurred to her that templars pay a price for them, too; her apology is soft and genuine. "I'm sorry. We've probably been pushing each other too hard."

The sigh, this time, is his. "Maybe. It's paid off, though." His smile is better this time, too, more awake, and, as usual, annoyingly infectious; she finds a grin of her own creeping onto her face as she asks, "Do you really think so?" She has an image of her fumbling with a dagger, still in robes, and winces.

"Yes." His response is wry where her question was hopeful. "Yes, I really _do_ think so."

Her smile grows, then she becomes worried again. "Tomorrow?" They all know what's beyond that barrier.

He looks at her for a long moment, and there's something resigned behind his eyes. "What happens, happens. You're as ready as you can be " - he shrugs - "and for now, that's the best we can do."

The waking world is slipping out from under her before she can stop it, and she nearly doesn't hear his nervous question. "I'm not _too _terrible at this whole teaching thing, am I?"

She shakes her head as it gently hits the ground, a smile on her face, and the last words she says while awake are, "Not bad. Not bad at all."


	67. Staring

_Follows on from "Exhaustion"._

* * *

><p><strong>Staring<strong>

**Alistair**

The sky is still a dark blue when he wakes; he rubs a frown off his forehead, and, when he takes his hands away, ends up looking in surprise at the face of his fellow Warden.

Last night comes back to him.

* * *

><p>"Oh yes, sleep outside in the <em>huge<em>, _scary forest _all alone. _Such _a good idea, with the _bears_, and the _werewolves_, and the... you aren't even listening to me, are you?"

She had obviously dropped off, couldn't hear him, but he continued to ramble, being... well, _him._ He looked wistfully to his tent, but just couldn't bring himself to leave her vulnerable _here. _He took one last look at her, curled up in the grass, and then sighed, lying down next to her. At least he was faster with a sword, if anything went wrong.

* * *

><p>He should really be getting up, but he finds himself staring at her as he lies there, tracing over her face with his eyes: pale, clear skin, occasionally fluttering eyelashes as she dreams, narrow nose, down to light pink lips.<p>

Even in sleep, a small, wry smile plays on her face. Must be dreaming of something good, then. His smile matches her own - good dreams are too rare for a Warden; all his brothers treasured them, and he wishes he knew what it was, what has made her so happy. There's a lock of fair hair caught in her lashes, across her nose, and he suddenly fights the urge to brush it out of her eyes...

... Then sits up quickly, exhaling in a desperate breath and struggling not to let his face colour. She's _asleep, _for Maker's sake, and he's probably intruding horribly into her personal space, and what has got _into _him lately? He's acting like... like... Well, he's acting _stupidly_. He stands as quietly as possible so as not to wake her, then stamps off to get his sword, knowing the grass will cover the noise - he's already delayed his exercises for far too long, and meditation will sort this out. Yes. Meditation. Meditation is good.

* * *

><p>He hears rustling behind him a few minutes later, and opens an eye to see her yawning and trying to stretch the cramps from sleeping on the ground out of her shoulders. The call surprises him. "Breakfast?"<p>

He gives up on meditation and nods, walking over to where she's re-lighting the campfire... _with magic. _She sees him looking, and the hint of a smirk appears on her face. She moves her fingers, wiggling them instead of pointing them straight at the campfire, and flames come from them, making patterns in the air. He tries not to make it too obvious that he's open-mouthed, but he can't help the twinge of regret inside him - the Chantry wanted him to help stop things like _this? _She lets a last spiral of flame sit above the wood, then moves her hand back, the flames falling to the ground and lighting the campfire.

"Show-off," he mutters, but he's grinning.

She shrugs. "Sorry. Just thought I might as well give you a show." She looks worried. "Actually, fire isn't exactly my strong point..."

He raises an eyebrow. After _that?_

"Primal is my weakest. I was always slightly better with creation. It was probably only because I was taught well in that school of magic, though."

He frowns, thinking back to Chantry training. "Primal... is the elements, right?" She nods. "Well, you are a pretty good healer, so I guess creation..." He stops at her smile, feeling slightly stupid. "What?"

"You would have made a truly awful templar," she says, beginning to roast the remains of last night's rabbit.

"_Thank you. _You are so _very_ kind." A pause. "Why?"

"You're intelligent, you can smite, but you like magic far too much," she explains, looking up, the smile still there.

Something in him warms at her words. She thinks he isn't stupid? Wow. That's... new.

The question catches him unawares a few minutes later when she asks. "Sleep well?"

He remembers how he woke up and prays he isn't blushing, unable to look her in the eye. "Well, there were the terrible nightmares, the animal noises, your snoring..." She makes a vague "hmph". "... But yes. I did."


	68. Protection

_Usually I use PMs, but, since it was an anon review... Thank you to a mysterious Reader; I'm astonished someone would read it all in one sitting, but thanks for doing so! Brightened up my day, that did._

_Don't be put off by the lack of obvious fluff here - I like to alternate between sweet and the occasional bit of bloody scary, and hopefully this chapter should have both. Let me know what you think._

* * *

><p><strong>Protection<strong>

**Morgana**

They look at the barrier in silence - even Morrigan has nothing to say. She throws a glance to Alistair, who tries to give a reassuring smile, and looks back to Leliana. Her friend gives her a smile of her own. She exhales, then they walk through the mist.

The scene that greets them is of a calm forest, but she can _feel _the tension in the air; the others' shoulders are set, just... _waiting._

It's a few minutes before she feels a tap on her back; she jumps, hand on her sword hilt, but it's only Leliana, looking back worriedly and whispering in her ear, "There are... footprints. Behind us. We are being followed." She nods as calmly as she can (though her hands are shaking), Leliana steps away, and they keep walking.

It isn't long before they meet the first group of wolves; she's sure she recognises one of them. She tries to gain entry to the ruins beyond, but they offer no choice. She sees the wolves tense as she suggests a peaceful discussion, hears the slow _hiss _from behind her of Alistair drawing his sword. Her eyes briefly flicker sideways, then make contact with the leader's once again in silent warning.

There will be no compromise. The taut string of peace between them snaps, the wolves lunging.

Their group moves as fast as their enemies do; Leliana is at her side, throwing herself behind the wolves; she feels the heat of magical fireballs already being thrown; Alistair has a firm hand on her chest, gently pushing her back, and they retreat together to pull back and assess. She draws her sword, looking to him. A nod, and then they part ways, him running to another wolf; she realises that he trusts her to mostly hold her own now, and that brings both pride and a hollow ache in her chest at the thought of being without his protection. She frowns as she awkwardly ducks a wolf's claw, her sword coming up to stab it through the chest. She's being stupid. She gets out of the way of the falling wolf just in time, walking backwards, watching the battlefield to try to take everything in.

She finishes off a wolf that Leliana has incapacitated, looking to the last.

Seeing her fellow Warden move, she remember why she wanted to learn swordwork; she could make pretty light shows, but there is something so primal, so _wild, _about _this_. She sees the training in every move, stances flowing into each other with a certain brutal beauty; he winces as he slams into the beast, but his strength carries him through, pushing it back. He's breathing heavily, wiping blood from his mouth, as he backs away from it; she reaches out with her mana, wincing at the sympathetic toothache, and quickly heals him. His eyes flit to her, and a smile teases the corner of his mouth, and then he's hastily dodging the beast, sword and shield at the ready.

It's a quick kill, as clean as he can make it, and as she watches it fall, sees him calmly sheathe his sword, she can't help but think that she's bloody lucky; he's never used that strength against her, only _defending_ her. She remembers again the tales of the mighty Wardens, the best of Thedas, and for a moment, can see it in him, a certain half-afraid awe rising in her.

Then he grins at her, and the spell is broken - somewhere inside her, she's very glad that he's back to just Alistair. "We're all still alive? Nothing broken? Great. Now for more werewolves, and more of their _lovely _breath."

He's soon at her side again, and, as they walk onwards, finally daring to breathe again, he murmurs, "Thanks for that, by the way."

She shakes her head. "You don't need to - "

His smile grows wider, his eyes searching her face. "I know. But I like to."

She feels sudden heat in her cheeks, and, mystified, looks away, her eyes settling on the leather of her boots. "The leader ran. I think he's somewhere inside the ruins."

"I, er, might not have got to him in time..."

She shrugs. "We'll find him. I'd rather avoid all... _this_, though." She looks behind them, at the bodies of the wolves.

He sighs, his eyes sad. "I know what you mean, but... we're Wardens. We do what's necessary."

"You sound like Duncan," she says, quietly. "You're too young for his voice to suit you. There's always a choice."

A shrug. "Maybe. And maybe we can kill the Archdemon with fluffy rabbits and the power of love. Who knows?" That damn grin is back, and it's already spreading.

"Oh, Alistair..." she groans, as they enter the ruins, "... that was nearly as bad as 'holding hands at the darkspawn'."

She expects him to flinch at the mention of Ostagar, and she sees something change briefly behind his eyes, but then he gives a mock sigh, looking to the stone ceiling. "Ah, the good old days..."


	69. The Lady

_Aplogies for the late and short update - it's been a busy Halloween. Things should be about back to normal after this.

Also, thank you to D for the very kind words - I don't get reviews like that every day; if I did, my head would be the size of a small country!

_

_Anyway, hope you enjoy the chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>The Lady<strong>

**Leliana**

Peaceful discussion, after what they have done? She stares at the wolves in disbelief, but Morgana looks them in the eye and nods.

Morgana looks around at them, then turns and begins walking after the wolves; Alistair puts a hand on her arm, causing her to trip, and tries to suppress a smile at the curse she utters. Then he says something; it's quiet, but Leliana catches something about the Veil being thin here.

She remembers her Chant studies. _The Fade barrier?_

Morgana nods, and mutters, "I'm aware." Something crosses her face then. "Do you find it... uncomfortable?"

He looks at her in concern, then seems to consider it. "A little. I hear it's worse for mages."

"It seems mages get the short end of the stick. Again. Doesn't surprise me at all." Morgana sighs, then speeds up, her footsteps abruptly halting as she enters a stone room.

Leliana enters shortly behind her, walking to stand at her side and seeing why she stopped. She has heard such things in the tales, but...

This is Witherfang, and yet, this is their Lady? It - _she - _appears to be some kind of wood spirit, and her greeting is gentle, her words soft.

Leliana swaps a look with her friend, and the message is clear - the same - for both of them.

Words of compromise, gentle suggestions - they cannot, _will_ not, trust any of it. She has enough blood on her hands to know better.


	70. Shemlen

_For a totally unplanned chapter, this ended up longer and thematically heavier than expected. Um... enjoy, if that's the word for angst._

* * *

><p><strong>Shemlen<strong>

**Alistair**

Morgana stands up, giving Zathrian's body one last look, then gazes at the former werewolves, who are examining their skin and clothes in astonishment. Some of them are smiling, some of them have mouths downturned in sorrow, staring at where their Lady used to be - the spirit that now only exists as a memory.

She gives them a smile, still recovering her breath, and then he sees her stop, following her gaze. Some of the now-humans are children - the "cubs", he supposes. She looks back at them, gestures to Leliana, the woman joining her next to the group, and he hears a creak and a _clank _of armour as she goes down on one knee; their voices are soft as they comfort the youngest children, ignoring the slightly suspicious stares of some of their mothers. He forces down a pang of sadness, trying to ignore the sudden ache in his chest, as he realises that the taint has stolen all hope of motherhood from her. Then it's _him _she's looking at, and he hesitantly walks over to her shoulder. She looks up, gives him a smile, but there's something sad behind her eyes as she says, "Don't worry, I'm not going to let Morrigan near crying children."

That provokes a smirk from him, but it fades as he sees a small boy - no older than six - staring at him, eyes wide with terror, visibly shaking. Memories rise in him of another frightened young boy, still trying to be flippant in the face of the enemy; laughter extinguished by impossibly tall templars, stained glass windows throwing coloured shapes on their armour, always telling him to _do what he's told. _He closes his eyes for a moment, swallows it down, and once again thanks the Maker for Duncan.

"D'you... do you think they've seen many humans?" he murmurs in Morgana's ear, eyes still locked on the trembling child. She shakes her head, adding, "I doubt they've ever been out of the forest." Before he knows quite what he's doing, he's kneeling next to her, digging in his pockets; he flips a silver off his thumb to the little boy, watches his eyes widen as he hesitantly picks it up, his eyes flitting from the coin to Alistair himself.

He gives the boy a smile, careful not to make any sudden (stupid) moments, and says softly, "Look after yourself. It's big out there, y'know." For some, it's the woods, for others, it's the walls of the Chantry, and he pretends not to know this all too well. The child seems to consider this, and then looks up at him with a small half-smile, running to find his mother.

Alistair sighs, standing, and Morgana slowly does the same. When she's spoken to the adults, she finally allows her face to fall, and swallows as she says, "I don't blame them for what their ancestors did. But what Zathrian said, what the humans did to his children, what the storyteller told us..." Her jaw sets before she wrinkles her nose, her expression settling into one of disgust, voice hardening. "_That's_ why the Dalish call us _shemlen."_

"It simply means_ human_, Morgana." Leliana enters the conversation with a graceful step, looking at the both of them worriedly.

"Not the way they used it," his fellow Warden says shortly. "Not with the looks they gave us." She seems to deflate. "They didn't trust us to start with. The humans still live, and their Keeper is dead. I don't even want to _think _about how they'll take this."

He looks at her, feeling worry crinkling his brow; the odd ache in him is back at her expression, and he comes to a decision. He's made her smile. Now to make her _laugh._


	71. Flirting

_A bit of a tonal change here, as I extract this story a little out of the last chapter's angst._

* * *

><p><p>

**Flirting**

**Alistair**

The walk back to the Dalish camp will be long, and they decide to follow the river to spare time. They part ways with the recently transformed humans, wishing them well, and then begin to trudge along the path they've set. Morrigan becomes a yellow-eyed wolf, disappearing into the foliage, and returns shortly afterwards, bearing a rabbit and warnings. "There are bears that way," she says, after returning to her human form, waving to their left. "They have new cubs. 'Twould be best to avoid them."

Morgana turns and gives her a smile, not seeing the surprise cross the witch's face - of course; it's not exactly like friendliness is her speciality. "Thank you, Morrigan." Morrigan nods brusquely with a half-muttered reply, returning her eyes to the road.

Morgana still seems drawn, eyes also fixed on the road ahead, until Leliana asks suddenly, a smile on her face, "So, what was your... opinion of Teagan?"

Oh, he _really _doesn't like the sound of this.

Morgana looks to her, frowning. "What?"

"He really does have the nicest eyes," Leliana continues, dreamily, her eyes quickly shifting to their brave leader, and now he understands - a bid to distract Morgana. Distract her with _his uncle._

_Seriously?_

Morgana turns to her fully, frowning. "And while we've been engaging werewolves in combat, trying to prevent civil war, and curing the Arl, you've been thinking about _this?"_

"Yes," the bard continues, stepping closer to Morgana, the smile widening; she leans into her ear, and lowers her voice conspiratorially. "You see, he seemed rather... enchanted to meet you."

Morgana trips unceremoniously over a stone on the path with a loud curse, and he grabs her arm to keep her steady as she splutters, "W - _What?_"

He raises his eyebrows. Yes, _he'd _quite like to know what she means too.

"You did not see the way his eyes followed you out of the room?" Leliana smirks, her meaning clear.

_**What? **__Teagan... that? _He absentmindedly finds himself doing the same, quickly dragging away his gaze, his face heating. No - definitely not "following"... and oh, _Maker, _he's doing it again, and she really ought to stop walking, or walk behind him, or _something_.He hears a small snort from behind him, and shoots Morrigan what he hopes is a death glare.

"And his... flirtations?"

Morgana looks at her, so surprised that it's actually comical. "He was _flirting?_ I just... just asked him about his family..."

Yes. Yes, she did, and he took that and ran with it. She looks so.. young then, desperately trying to cover her naïveté. Remembering the stories from the templars, he chips in, "What, no-one ever... er, flirted with you at the Circle?"

Unfortunately, she catches the implication, and he gets ready to duck the fireball coming his way. Her expression is icy as she replies, "Mages' promiscuity is a lie spread by the Chantry." There's a pause, and she looks to the sky as she thinks. "Well, actually, a few of my friends, with others... They _were_ stuck in a Tower with other willing mages..." Her cheeks begin to colour, the sensible Warden mask clattering to the ground, and he can't help the sympathy that rises in him. "I... didn't. Nothing like that. It always seemed a little... desperate."

He frowns. _Does that mean she's also never...?_ He stops that thought before it can complete itself; why is he even _asking _himself this?

She drops back, falling into step beside him, her cheeks red, and mutters, "Look, I also heard... stories."

He looks at her in surprise. "Stories of... what, exactly?"

"The, er, the Chantry. Lots of repressed templars... and... sisters... and maybe other templars..." She raises a hand to her head, combing through blood-stained hair, in her discomfort.

It takes him a moment to understand, and his voice, when he finds it, is much louder than he intended. "_What?_ I... _no! _It wasn't like that!"

"Ah. I see. Sorry."

There's a pause, and the laugh escapes before he thinks about it. "They gave the mages... the same stories?"

Her voice is a low mutter, and she refuses to look at him. "I _thought_ you weren't exactly the type, but..." She finally looks up, shrugging, her voice false-bright. "I thought it was best to... er, check?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Riight. 'Check'." The smirk falls from his face as a thought occurs to him, and he murmurs, "Thank the Maker the assassin isn't here."

She emits a small half-laugh, pointing to a clearing ahead of them. "Camp?"

He nods, the heat finally beginning to drain from his cheeks. "Camp."


	72. Never?

_Double update today! Enjoy. _

_This is a continuation of "Flirting". Forgive me for my paraphrasing (i.e, butchering) of game dialogue herein (you know what I'm about to write - it's all copyright BioWare, their writers, etc. Not me)._

* * *

><p><strong>Never?<strong>

**Morgana**

She shifts where she's sitting with a sigh.

No. She can't.

It would be utterly rude. Improper.

Besides, he might spontaneously combust in embarrassment at the question. This _is_ Alistair, after all_._

She sneaks a glance at where he's making a vague, half-hearted attempt to read a book in his boredom; his mind is obviously elsewhere, the same as hers. Another sigh, and she finds himself trudging to sit down next down to him. He looks at her in surprise, then quickly back to the fire; it seems his mind is also on their earlier conversation.

"Alistair?" she tries, cautiously; she feels herself edging gingerly into the conversation, a habit she's picked up over years, and grits her teeth in annoyance at herself.

"Mmm?" He's distracted, his voice far away.

"What we spoke about earlier..." It's still embarrassing, but the words come more easily without Morrigan smirking and Leliana giggling behind them (as lovely as the woman is, she really has little sense of subtlety about these things).

He drops the book, scrabbling to close it in embarrassment. "Oh. That." He gives her a false-bright smile, still unable to look her in the eye. "Anything important?"

"If I was wrong about the Chantry, and you were raised there, have you never...?" She clenches her fists in frustration, instantly wishing she'd never asked.

When he looks back at her, his smile is wry, rather than the shock she expected. "Never what? Had a good pair of shoes? Eaten jellied ham? Licked a lamppost in winter?"

"Licked a - ?" Never mind _Alistair _combusting, he's making this bloody impossible. "You _know _what I'm talking about."

"Tell me, dear lady... have _you _ever licked a lamppost in winter?" It's quite clear from his tone what _he's_ talking about.

"I... No, I haven't."

She sees his raised eyebrow. "Good. I... hear it can be quite painful. I myself have never done... it. That. Not that I haven't thought about it, but, you know..."

He really _is_ a...? Well, that was... _unexpected. _She nods. "Few opportunities, I suppose."

He seems relieved she understands. "Well, the Chantry isn't exactly a place for boisterous boys. Also, I was taught to be a gentleman in the presence of beautiful women such as yourself. That... isn't so bad, is it?"

_Beautiful? _She looks at him in surprise, something she can't quite place fluttering at the word. He's surely making one of his usual jokes, isn't he? Yet he seems as shocked by his own words as she is.

She falters for a moment before replying. "Not... not bad at all. I understand - it needed to be the right person, and since one of you could die any day from a Harrowing, those at the Tower weren't exactly _keen _on committed relationships." She thinks for a moment. "Besides, there wasn't exactly anyone I could call_ attractive..." _She supposes she could see why Anders was so popular, but it was more in a wiry way, and he was very much like herself, pale with hands soft, smelling of books and old magic. "No-one like..." She finds her eyes flickering to the warrior at her side, and clamps down on her thought before she can end it. _No-one like... him. _The thought is at once uncomfortable, unfamiliar (this is Alistair, her fellow Warden, her _friend_) and makes utter _sense _in a way that confuses her. Well, she supposes he _is _handsome, in a theoretical sense - the genetic Theirin nose and strong jaw, warm eyes she has found herself watching in absentminded moments... She remembers Cailan's, ones of a cool blue, and the observation rises from her before she can stop it. "Your eyes... They're your mother's."

He stares at her for a moment in astonished silence, then seems to consider it. "I... guess so. Eamon and Teagan used to say I looked like Maric, but, seeing him next to Cailan... I think Cailan got the genes."

She thinks for a moment. "You have much of your father about you." He frowns, and she elaborates, knowing it's true as she says it, "But you look different from them both, in little ways." She likes it, she realises. "You just look like..." She shrugs. "... Alistair. It suits you."

He smiles at her, and she suddenly realises what she has said, what she has _thought, _about_ Alistair, _her face falling, and her cheeks beginning to burn. Her _friend _of easy humour and strength_, _the one piece of warmth and light she's found in all of this. She finds herself standing, tries to throw him a faltering smile. "I... ah... Firewood. It's probably Leliana's turn." She backs away from the fire, turning to Leliana. "Can we...?"

"Of course," her friend replies, smiling.

As they walk together into the tree line, she looks back to see Alistair with a hand to his forehead, staring at the ground, and frowns.


	73. Fereldan Stew

_Update 2/2 for today. Continued from "Flirting" and "Never?"_

* * *

><p><strong>Fereldan Stew<strong>

**Alistair**

_Beautiful? _Where in Andraste's name did _that _come from?

It just... slipped out, like his confession of his cheese addiction. Well, cheese addiction she can maybe handle, but... _that? _He's probably scared her off like a frightened rabbit.

Why say it, anyway? Leliana is certainly gorgeous, as is the witch bitch, in her own just-crawled-out-of-a-swamp sort of way, but why say it to _Morgana? _Morgana, his friend. His fellow Grey Warden. Actually, his fellow Warden with quite a nice a-

No, _not _thinking about that. Not now, not _ever. _He's just asking for a lightning bolt from above if he does so. Or from a wrathful splintmailed mage.

He groans, running a hand down his face, and stands to prepare the traditional Fereldan stew of... grey things.

He hears a laugh from the edge of camp, turning to see Morgana grinning at something Leliana's said, and hastily returns to the stew.

_Stew. Now. Uniform grey, just like in the Chantry. _He sighs, making a vague attempt to start chopping the vegetables.


	74. Ochs

_{Ochs = literally translates at "the ox". Medieval longsword stance - a block.}_

* * *

><p><strong>Ochs<strong>

**Morgana**

She walks up to the pot, fervently hoping she'll be able to look Alistair in the eye, and peers into it. "Stew?" she asks, slightly disbelievingly.

"Yes, stew," he replies, giving it one last stir, frowning. "Just about done, too." He passes her a bowl without a word, pouring some of... whatever he's made into it with a call of, "Food, anybody?"

She stares at it, poking it with a spoon from the supply Eamon gave them for the journey. "Is that... _cheese?_"

He nods, fetching himself a portion and settling down on the ground beside her. "Goes with everything."

She's rather uncertain about that, but, after taking a cautious spoonful, she begins her meal in earnest. She looks up to see him watching her wolf down the food, an eyebrow raised - she's barely aware of the taste, and thinks that's probably a good thing - and cringes, slowing down slightly, eyes still half on him.

He gives her a smile, shaking his head. "Trust me, I know the feeling."

She returns it, remembering what he said about the Grey Warden appetite, and the weight of her own awkwardness lifts from her shoulders as they both unceremoniously eat their food, by now used to the Leliana's horrified stare. Morgana only stops to look up with a brief smile as it begins to rain.

* * *

><p>"<em>Ochs<em>," he sighs to her exasperatedly the next morning, showing her with his own sword and shaking his head with a sigh when she again fails to achieve the stance. "Come on, you've done this plenty of times before."

Leaning her sword against the pile of firewood at the edge of camp, she stifles a yawn, and he smirks. "Why do I get the feeling you're not wholeheartedly devoted to training this morning?"

She glares at him, picking her sword back up and settling into an almost-_ochs. _"Pretty much," he murmurs, cocking his head. "Now, pretend I'm a... hurlock or something."

_This _part she knows, and she smiles sweetly at him, pausing, before brutally lunging.

He dodges it easily, shaking his head once again and chiding her, sing-song, "Well, look who's overconfident this morning."

They circle each other, him still grinning, alone in the morning light. She parries his half-hearted jab, aiming for his stomach, but he blocks it, quickly taking hold of her sword arm; she makes a small noise of frustration, and he lets it go, backing away slowly before gesturing to her. "You can do better than that."

She stares at him, still moving, her breathing calming, slowing, until it's almost in sync with the _clank _of her plate-booted step.

His movement is so fast she almost doesn't catch it, his sword aiming for her kneecaps, but she steps aside just in time, placing a foot to the back of his calf and _pushing_; he's caught off balance, looking at her in surprise as he falls. She doesn't expect his laugh and swift grab of her arm, and falls into the mud of last night's rain with a loud "_oof!" _and a muttered curse, her sword dropping to the ground. Winded, she finally looks up to see her comrade lying next to her, in a similar state, raising his head to give her a mud-splattered grin and still gently holding her arm. Ignoring the fact that their faces and their armour will probably never be clean again, she exhales, the two of them smiling at each other for a long moment.

Then he clambers to his feet, sword held aside, offering a gauntleted hand. "Nothing broken?"

She takes it, his fingers warm on her own, looking up at him. The silence stretches. Her throat is dry, her head uncomfortably light, and she sees him swallow, his smile wavering to be replaced by something unfamiliar, his eyes never leaving hers; then she shakes her head, blaming it on dizziness and standing - the moment is broken, and she's unsure whether to be relieved or horribly disappointed.

"Perhaps a little bruised," she replies false-brightly, picking up her sword to sheathe it and looking at the forest around them. She scratches the back of her neck, which is suddenly hot as her cheeks. "We should probably wake Leliana and Morrigan."

He nods, running a hand awkwardly through his hair; then Morgana loudly calls the other women, and, as Leliana steps out of her tent, taking in the camp, the odd air between them dissipates. He offers her a tentative smile, moving to their pack to run through the supplies.


	75. Progress

_Double update! This would have been Friday's. _

* * *

><p><strong>Progress<strong>

**Leliana**

Progress through the forest is achingly slow as Morgana ducks and dodges branches; still tense from encounters with the wolves, Leliana's ears picking up every sound, she sighs as every one turns out to have an innocuous source. She is covered with scratches, but doesn't even wince as each thorn finds its target. She lets out one short hiss of pain as she looks down to see a bleeding gash across her knee; Morgana, still clearly as nervous as she is, picks it up and turns around, asking Alistair to stop for a moment.

Morrigan is behind her, but, of course, utterly ignores her injury, sighing at having to halt their barely-there progress.

Morgana walks to her and sees the source of her pain, grimacing before looking up to her. "The leather armour's just not covering you right, is it?"

"I am used to it," she says simply. "The way it is made..."

The other woman shakes her head, then something seems to occur to her. "Alistair?" Morgana calls. "Have we still got the chainmail?"

He shrugs one of their two packs off his back with a sigh. "Unfortunately, yes." He has been remarking on the weight of their supplies recently; perhaps she should mention it...

Morgana frowns at Leliana's injury, exhales, and then, with a stretch of her fingers, familiar light is gathering round the wound, closing the skin. "Thank you," Leliana says, smiling.

Morgana shakes her head, replying, "It's not an inconvenience. You're starting to sound like Alistair." Then the mage walks to the pack, looking through it, and after plenty of rustling and even a few _clangs, _lifts a slightly battered armour set out. "It was meant to be a spare for me..." The other woman looks over her petite form, grimacing and saying apologetically, "It, er, may be a little loose."

The armour is dropped in her hands, and she examines it, an eyebrow raised, memories of doing the same in Orlais rising in her mind; she instinctively slips into the old, comfortable tongue before she realizes it, murmuring, "_Bon qualité._" She looks up anxiously, knowing the average Fereldan's reaction to spoken Orlesian, but Morgana is just biting her lip, seeming to be thinking something over. She asks, frowning, "'Good quality'?"

Leliana nods with a smile. "Indeed it is. Did they...?"

Morgana shakes her head, a nervous half-laugh escaping her. "Ohh no. Tower mages still considered themselves Fereldan mages, even if Ferelden didn't want them. Wouldn't have been caught dead teaching Orlesian. A guess."

"Ah." She begins to move towards the trees. "But an educated one."

Morgana gives her a smile, then says to Alistair, "Speaking of new armour..."

He nods. "_Definitely_. I think this is beginning to _fall apart." _He look down at himself in despair. "I've had this since I Joined, and it was secondhand _then..." _He sighs._ "_I don't think it was made with a _Blight _in mind."

As Morgana circles him, frowning, at times crouching to find a precise worn spot, he raises his eyes to the sky, pretending not to cringe, and Morrigan mutters something behind them.

Leliana laughs watching the scene, shaking her head, then turns and ducks into the trees to change, glad to be in the company of friends.

Well, and the witch.


	76. Shine

_2/2 for today. Enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Shine<strong>

**Morrigan**

She watches their leader, sees the way her eyes flit to every tree and flower they pass, the way they follow every small animal that crosses their path; the woman is not estimating danger, she realises eventually, but simply _watching._ She notices Morgana mostly avoiding branches that block them rather than simply removing them, and something else occurs to her. She remembers the mage's reaction to rain, sees the same light in the woman's eyes as she speeds slightly to walk next to her. She ignores Alistair's scowl at the woman's other side. Morgana tries to hide it, but it shines through, a wonder as pure as a child's. The memory of a mirror, long ago, treasured in her stupidity, comes to mind, and she quashes it, quickly and forcefully.

'Tis foolish, this reverence toward nature; it would certainly not afford her the same mercy and courtesy. Her mother has taught her this, time and time again.

Then she remembers that the woman has been raised within stone walls, and this is probably her first true taste of nature; of course she will not be as comfortable here as she is. Pity, unexpected and uncomfortable, creeps its way into her chest, and she looks away in an attempt to rid herself of it.

Names flicker through her head and disappear, an involuntary reaction, as she recognises the plants around them. She notices Morgana's eye drawn to a flower, one with blue and purple petals that she remembers from her childhood. "Peacock's feather," she says, before she can stop herself, and Morgana looks to her in surprise. "Much is the same here as the Wilds, except for the marshland."

"And that?" Morgana nods to bright orange flowers crawling up a tree ahead of them.

"Firestar. It makes an excellent poison, if I remember rightly. Did they teach you none of this at your Tower?" The exasperation in her voice is unintentional.

Morgana shakes her head, replying shortly, "What's the point of learning about flowers you'll never see or smell? Any herbs we had were brought in by templars or the odd permitted mage."

The pity returns, sudden and unwanted. "I... I see."

Morgana notices the waver, and mutters, "Sorry. It just... wasn't the best place to grow up."

Her mother has told her of such things, but... "Grow up?"

"Templars took me when I was four." She notices the mage's hands twitch in her discomfort, sees the way her eyes settle straight ahead of them and her shoulders tense; unfortunately, Alistair also seems to, chipping in from her right, "Have you _said_ something to her?"

She is ready with an appropriately scathing reply, but Morgana shakes her head. "Not her fault. Honestly." He opens his mouth, and his fellow Warden interrupts, "Don't." He closes it, frowns at her, and returns his eyes to the path ahead of them, seeming embarrassed.

Morrigan tries to contain her surprise at the sudden defence, and, as Morgana's eyes stray to a flash of white in the green around them, she murmurs, "Andraste's Grace."

Morgana looks to her and, after a moment, smiles.


	77. Pockets Full Of Stones

_This is a (quite sad, really) little idea that struck me about the Tower; I'd been looking for a way to write it, then along came Florence + The Machine's "What The Water Gave Me" - hence the chapter title's quote. (Details like this are what make the mage origin so interesting to me.) _

_I'd say drowning is a trigger - so a small warning for mention of it._

* * *

><p><strong>Pockets Full Of Stones<strong>

**Morgana**

* * *

><p><em>In the case of new apostates, the resourceful templar can use water to their advantage; due to the Towers, any swimming experience is unlikely, often making it a useful trap.<em>

_~Ser Trevor Hawthorne, "On Methods For the Capture Of Mages"_

* * *

><p>She wonders if she's pushing them too hard, but they have to get back to the Dalish; part of her wants to postpone it for as long as possible, is afraid of what they will say about Zathrian, but she knows that it's best to get it over with. She sighs at the thought. Night has fallen, all of them showing signs of fatigue from still walking, but no-one quite seems to have the nerve to ask to stop until they see a pool, the river ending, and she asks if they want to stock up their supplies. There are nods and sighs of relief.<p>

She hears Alistair's sharp exhalation next to her a few minutes later; things don't quite make sense until that horrible tingling is in her head and down her spine too, the thrum of the taint growing louder in her blood. "Darkspawn," she announces, seeing her fellow Warden's curt nod. "_Just _what we need."

They draw their swords in unison, and look to each other in surprise at the sound; she hears Leliana's daggers and a muttered incantation from Morrigan behind her.

Then the darkspawn are upon them, screeching and laughing in gargling corrupted voices. Once, they would have terrified her, and really, they still do - but she is a _Grey Warden, _she reminds herself, locking fear away in a box somewhere inside her. Having her friends by her side helps, too.

She isn't sure quite how it happens, only that a hurlock finds its way past her guard one time too many, one step too close to the water, and she's falling.

She hears a shout as she enters the water with a splash, icy coldness hitting her. Then darkness overtakes her, and all she can hear and see is the press of the water around her, grabbing at her hair and trailing it in front of her. She closes her eyes as it buffets at them. Rational thought is wiped away by panic; she's never swum in her life, always keeping to the shallows for bathing - she feels herself beginning to sink, her lungs starting to burn, and desperately kicks, scrabbling through the water's resistance, movements awkward in armour which she knows is weighing her down, but it makes no difference. Still she falls.

Her thoughts turn simple, childlike and desperate, as she fights not to open her mouth, not to let the beast holding her as she struggles and kicks in. _Cold. Dark. Not like this. Not like this._

She drifts slowly in her own personal darkness, the water's shock dulling, breath bursting for release, and she finally loses the fight; _Just one breath... _She opens her mouth, and it's in her throat, terror returning even stronger than before.

She nearly misses the second splash close in the water, but then she's being pulled up, away, and she clings tightly to her rescuer by sheer instinct - the only solid thing she can hold.

They break the surface, Alistair with a desperate inhalation, her coughing and spluttering out the unwelcome water in her mouth until she can breathe again, limp in his arms, the sudden breeze cold on her soaked skin. He holds her like he's afraid to let go. Maybe he _is, _she realises abruptly. "Never... do that to me... again," he gasps, voice close to her ear, and something flutters in her involuntarily at his words. She opens her eyes to be greeted by the sight of him, hair plastered to his forehead and water dripping off his nose, still trying to recover his breath as he begins to wade further towards dry land, away from the spot she fell in.

It occurs to her what he's doing; she coughs once more before she can speak, in a similar state, and places a finger under his chin. "You're... stronger than you look."

He inhales sharply in surprise at her touch, then smiles, glancing down at her. "Templar and Chantry training, remember?" There's a pause before he adds, "Besides, you're not exactly an ogre. Though _Maker, _armour is heavy."

"Not _exactly?" _she teases quietly, though suddenly the "beautiful" comment comes back to her, and she refuses to allow her cheeks to colour. She should really be getting back to her feet and saving him the trouble of doing this, but everything seems so _overwhelming_ - the water, their fatigue... She sighs, falling silent, shutting her eyes and finding herself settling closer to him, seeking his warmth. His breathing and the splashes of his steps are the only sounds around her, and they are more than enough.

There's a jolt as they reach hard ground, and, eyes still shut, she hears rather than sees Leliana rush over to them, muttering worried exclamations, a few in Orlesian.

"She cannot swim?" asks Morrigan in surprise.

"None of them can," he replies shortly. "Part of being shut up in a Tower. 'Water is one of the resourceful templar's best weapons,'" he paraphrases, voice bitter and repulsed.

Even those of them occasionally let into the grounds on jobs were kept well away from the lake, she agrees silently and sleepily.

"Is she - ?" the witch asks, surprising worry in her voice.

"She _seems _all right," he says quietly, his usual animosity towards Morrigan gone, "but I'll keep an eye on her."

Much as she tries to cling to it, consciousness is fast slipping from her, and she's barely aware of being gently lowered to the ground.


	78. Vigil

_Continuation of the previous chapter._

_I was wondering about the DA equivalent of watching someone for shock or hypothermia, and ended up with... this, whatever this is. I'd say there wouldn't be enough knowledge to follow all the medical guidelines, so any errors are probably (hopefully!) through medieval practicality rather than bad writing. _

* * *

><p><strong>Vigil<strong>

**Leliana**

Alistair shrugs off her concern as she fusses over him, looking back at Morgana; the woman's still unconscious, and they know that they won't be going _anywhere_ tonight. She looks at him sternly as he glances over his shoulder once again, brow creasing in worry as he watches the woman on the ground.

She says firmly, "I will tend to her - have you not _looked_ at yourself?"

He finally does, and seems to realise that he's still soaked; his hair will probably never be the same again, either. He gives her a sheepish grin, opening his mouth, but she swiftly interrupts him. "She will need to be watched for signs of chill. If you will not allow me to help you, at least be useful by not _dripping_ upon her." She neglects to mention that _he _probably does as well, but he seems unchanged, and she decides to trust her own judgement.

His smile turns even_ more_ sheepish - if such a feat is even possible - and he nods. "I suppose I should." Another anxious glance back at Morgana, a swallow, and then he trudges away to dry off and find a change of clothes.

She wonders how the being of awkward humility before her can be the same man who pulled Morgana from the water without a word, like something out of the old tales - and she knows _plenty_ of those.

She is relieved that she manages to rouse Morgana, ignoring the muttered oath as she does so - her friend is certainly _not_ a glamorous waker - and passes her a change of clothes, pointing to forest further downriver in which to put them on; the woman struggles to her feet, hastily thanking her, and takes her advice, clanking as she goes (she notices in concern that she is shivering slightly; something will have to be done about that).

Morgana is sitting by a magically-produced fire when Alistair returns, and now that the initial panic has worn off, there is an obvious, heavy silence between the two Wardens; he stops abruptly upon seeing her, both looking intently at the ground, Alistair rubbing the back of his neck and trying to find something to say. Their eyes meet, and Morgana blurts, "Thank you. For what you did."

He nods, lips curving into a small smile. "Not a problem."

Morgana stifles a yawn as he sits next to her, and there is a thoughtful silence as they stare into the fire, before she murmurs, "If you hadn't..."

He cuts her off, his voice sharp, swallowing. "_Don't_. It's just... not worth thinking about, all right?"

Leliana begins to absentmindedly strum Morgana's lute, a hummed tune flowing from her lips, as she remembers his face, the way he had clung to his fellow Warden as if afraid she wasn't quite real.

The combination of the night's events, the song and the warmth of the fire mean that Morgana is soon nodding off (the woman seems to prefer to sleep under the stars most of the time, and in the _mud_ - in theory, romantic, in practice... less so. She wonders about forcing her into a tent in these circumstances, but doubts flimsy canvas will make a temperature difference); Alistair darts a worried glance at the mage, placing a hand on her arm to check the tremors have stopped, and then stands, returning shortly with a couple of blankets and his armour.

She pretends not to watch them, a smile threatening, refusing to allow her fingers to slip on the lute strings.

He drapes them over Morgana, sitting next to her and trying to check over his armour for any more signs of damage; his eyes regularly flicker back to the woman at his side, no matter how much he tries to hide it, and he eventually sighs with a low mutter of, "Well, I _said _I'd keep an eye on you." He lays aside his armour, eyes returning to Morgana.

Leliana puts down the lute, ducking into her tent with one last look at the pair of them, her smile finally breaking through.

* * *

><p>When she steps out the following morning, he is still sitting there, shadowed eyes only straying from the sleeping mage at the sound of her footsteps; he looks up, giving her a weary smile.<p> 


	79. Rest Day

_I need to give credit to MsBarrows here for the concept of "rest days", an idea that I'd genuinely, utterly missed. Her stories are excellent at the quiet moments (and the loud ones, and the in-between ones) - if you haven't read them, they come highly recommended._

* * *

><p><strong>Rest Day<strong>

**Morgana**

Her eyes snap open, as, sweating and thrashing from yet another nightmare, she absently notices somewhere at the back of her mind that the sky is _light - morning? _She finally registers the steady hand on her shoulder, gently but firmly holding her down as she wakes up fully and regains control of her movements.

"Another one?" asks Alistair next to her, his voice concerned, and he doesn't need to explain the question.

Wait. _Next to her? _They haven't taken watch together...

She sits up, remembering the events of the night before, and nearly headbutts the concerned Warden crouching beside her with another hand on her back.

She places one of her own on his shoulder, and he watches her slowly get to her feet, braced to help her. She looks down at him, and sees that he looks... tired to the point of being ill. He stands with her after a moment, dusting himself off, and sighs. "I'll wake the others, then I guess we better get moving?"

He probably didn't intend for the hopeful question to slip into his voice, would probably have walked and fought beside her as ever, but she takes one look at him (hair in a thousand directions, heavy eyelids, what could - with work - be a beard, every muscle still tensed) and shakes his head. "Rest day, I think."

Maybe it _would _be good. A day to gather any herbs they need, catch up on rest... maybe just _breathe _in amongst all the bloodshed.

There's a long pause, then he nods, face breaking into a smile she suddenly wishes she saw more often. "I'll just..." A half-hearted gesture, an awkward grin, and then he walks to his pack and makes the first movements of setting up his tent.

She sees Leliana leaning against a tree, an eyebrow raised, and trudges to her, still shaking off the remnants of sleep. Her voice is hushed, eyes following him, as she asks, "Bad night?"

Leliana seems to consider it for a moment. "Not... necessarily."

Morgana frowns. "Am I missing something?"

Leliana simply smiles. "All will become clear in its own time. Stew?"

* * *

><p><em>A rest. <em>The thought rings repeatedly in her mind as she sits on a stump, watches the water sparkle in the afternoon sun. Even though she has given the spare time, she still can't help treasuring it. Ignoring the quiet - perhaps vaguely menacing now - burble of the river close to her, she plucks the strings of the lute that had once been hers. She had found herself asking Leliana to borrow it, had simply _walked _from camp until she found this place - another expanse of water like the one that had nearly claimed her, in a clearing, tucked away amongst trees and shadows. The wind runs gently through the leaves, more a whispered breath than a gale.

Perhaps she should be scared of the water - she isn't sure. It looks so beautiful when she isn't _in _it. Anders would probably have given his right arm to draw this, and she isn't certain whether to cry or smile at the thought; perhaps he would have appreciated it more, the only mage who could swim.

She looks down at the lute, finds herself absentmindedly plucking at it, fingers dancing on the strings with little purpose. An old tune forms as she continues, and before she knows it, her voice has joined the lute, and she's singing, on her own, for the first time in so _long - _singing at _all _for the first time since after Jowan's death_. _It's different, smaller, without Leliana, but she finds the tension fleeing from her, muscles relaxing.

She looks behind her at the hint of a rough cough, song stopping abruptly, and sees Alistair sitting, back against a tree and hands on knees, looking significantly better-groomed than he did this morning, and, now that he's been spotted, very, _very _awkward. She wonders how long he's been there, but the answer is obvious - long _enough._ "Sorry. I was training, and just... followed the song?" He smiles sheepishly. "I'll... go now, before I do something even _more_ stupid." He stands to go, but stops, frowning, seeming to realise something; he turns back to her. "You _were _singing. After we got back to Redcliffe."

There's a pause, and then she nods, cheeks flushing, looking down at the lute and praying for the moment to be over.

She hears rather than sees him cross the distance and sit on the grass next to her; she looks up at the tentative and quickly removed hand on her arm, surprise and a hint of something else she can't place, warm and confusing, flaring in her. Her eyes quickly flicker back to the lute, but he just leans slightly until she looks him in the eye, and says with a smile, "It was _good. You're _good. Stop apologising for it."

"I didn't say - "

"Your face did."

He doesn't rise - she knew he wasn't going to - and, adjusting her hands on the lute, she softly begins to play, listening to the appreciative silence beside her.


	80. A Dead Man's Shoes

**A Dead Man's Shoes**

**Alistair**

He barely seems to have relaxed when it's already the next morning, the four of them rushing to pack up, strapping weapons to their hips... well, and back, in Morrigan's case, but the less he thinks of _her_, the better.

Morgana does it with ease, a far cry from the skinny, nervous mage who almost used to double up with the weight of a weapon at first; he'd had to keep her using the dagger for weeks longer than they both wanted because of it, and her frustration showed through in their lessons. He watches her as he does the same, eyes switching from his sword to hers, and is uncomfortable to find his eyes lingering on her for longer than is strictly proper. Shaking his head, remembering a conversation that seems so _long _ago now - "... _Not that I'm some sort of drooling lecher..." _- and turning his eyes to the forest around them instead, he walks to join her.

"We better get going," she says, giving him a small smile and then, frowning, she murmurs, "You were right."

"About?"

"The armour. I think it _is _rusting." She contemplates the trees ahead of them with a sigh, jumping at Leliana's hand on her shoulder, and the two women lapse into a muttered check of supplies. Morrigan is skulking in her own little corner, glaring at him when she spots him looking at her. He rolls his eyes, again waiting and trying not to show his boredom.

_Wait._

He looks round in surprise as he catches the word "swimming", seeing Morgana finger-combing ragged hair in discomfort, her voice dropping even lower. Then Leliana hugs her tightly, and she looks at him over the bard's shoulder with such a wide-eyed expression of surprise that he has to restrain a laugh. Unfortunately, a little of it escapes, and Leliana turns to him, face serious.

"Surely you did not swim from birth, Alistair?" she asks, voice faux-understanding but hands on hips. Morgana stands behind her, arms crossed, shaking her head at the misunderstanding and fighting a smile.

"Pretty much," he replies smoothly, adjusting his gloves before finally looking up. "Wild swimming dogs from the Anderfels, remember?"

A snort from their leader, and then her eyes are back ahead of them, and she's calling to them, "Onwards, I think."

Morrigan reluctantly walks over to join them, him speeding up to fall into step with Morgana, and there's a pause as they walk together; he darts the occasional glance to her, because he's been on the receiving end of _far _too many of these silences not to know one.

Sure enough, a couple of minutes later, the question falls from his fellow Warden's lips. "_Swimming _dogs?"

"They were. Well, as much as a four-legged animal _can _swim, which is... quite well, actually. Many found the sight of a toddler doggy-paddling like a mabari oddly comical." He fights to keep his tone light - because, while perhaps not from the Anderfels, the mabari at Redcliffe _had _been his companions as much as the people. Well, that's what a childhood in stables does for you.

"Hmmm." Scepticism still soaks her voice, but she lets it drop, the smile, too dropping from her face as she asks him, "How long until we're at the Dalish camp?"

"Not long. Maybe a day." He's guessing, and this forest is all starting to look the same (everything's vaguely threatening and... _green_), but he tries for a fair answer.

She nods, shoulders seeming to sag.

"Zathrian?" he asks.

She looks him in the eye, and he finds an odd hollowness building in him at the sadness in her eyes. "They'll think we killed their keeper. And we can hardly tell them that he was a vengeful maniac who nearly sacrificed his people for a twisted anti-human agenda."

"Well, we _can_, but I can't say I'm that good at running from lots of scarily accurate arrows." He lets out a rough, forced laugh.

She is quieter as she continues. "Then the dwarves. After that..." He finds himself tensing involuntarily at what she's about to say, praying she'll stop, change the subject, _anything, _but she finishes, looking straight at him, "... the Landsmeet."

He fights not to grind his teeth, refusing to look her in the eye. "I didn't _ask _for this. I don't _want _to be king. Ever. Don't..." He swallows, cursing his voice for deserting him. "Don't make me."

"And what if I don't?" Her voice is hard, tired. "Loghain keeps his traitorous arse on the throne, decrying Orlesians while darkspawn reduce Ferelden to ruins?"

"We'll think of something," he replies lamely. "Now can we talk about something else? _Please?_"

"You're a _prince, _Alistair. You can't just try and run away from it."

He shakes his head. "No. I'm a bastard and a Warden. This was never how it was meant to _be_. I'm not an heir, I'd just be stepping into a dead man's shoes."

"That's what heirs _do. _But you're not going to talk sensibly about this, so what's the point?"

"Why are _you_ so bothered, anyway?" he snaps, regretting it the moment he closes his mouth and he sees the hurt flicker across her face. It turns to confusion, and now it's her avoiding his eye.

"I... I don't know," she answers quietly, and they walk on in a bitter silence.

* * *

><p><em>A chapter because, well, things can't be perfect between our Wardens all the time, and if there's one certain way to rile Alistair up, it's to try and broach the subject of his heritage.<em>


	81. Woodsmoke

_A quick note: If anyone's interested, I've started a parallel project to this one, _Dreams & Books, _telling the story of young Morgana in the Circle; it can be read along with _Armour _and make sense._

_Anyway, enough fic-plugging - onwards with that little thing called the story. This chapter mildly references chapter 58, "The Smell Of Freedom"._

* * *

><p><strong>Woodsmoke<strong>

**Morgana**

Heavy silence hangs between them as they trudge to the Dalish camp, turning the air grey and drawing worried glances from Leliana. She opens her mouth as if to say something a few times, then seems to think better of it.

Morgana frowns at the ground, stubbornly refusing to look at him. He has a point - why _is _she so bothered, anyway?

It comes to her as she ducks yet another branch. She imagines all of this without him at her side, his shield and steady presence reminding her that she's not alone, and feels hollow, the image seeming _wrong _in her head.

She remembers his words in the Korcari Wilds, after Ostagar, when they finally realised what was on their shoulders; him, without the closest thing to family he'd ever known, begging her not to back out on him, saying he couldn't do it alone, seeming so... broken.

At the time, she'd barely known him, had been too busy telling herself he was an ignorant templar to give in to the twinge of pity somewhere inside her. Now, the memory is physically painful, and she realises that she's the same. She can't do this alone.

She finally looks at him, catches him in the middle of throwing her a cautious glance; there's an awkward silence, and they both speak at the same time, their words stumbling. "I'm sorry... "

He lets out a small, nervous laugh, and they stop, just looking at each other. She fights the sudden urge to reach out and touch him, reassure him in some way, her throat dry, their eyes locked. She steps closer to him before her feet can obey her mind, reaching out a hand formally. "I was too short with you, and it all spiralled a little out of control..." She sighs. "Friends?" she tries hopefully.

A sigh. "I was... being stupid. As usual, I suppse." Then he grins at her, and she hadn't known how much she missed it. "Friends." He shakes her hand, then, catching her off-guard, pulls her into a cautious hug. She inhales at the sudden, unexpected touch, heat coming off him in waves; the smell of polish and lye soap fill her nose, and something else... Her eyes widen. She raises a hand to his arm, fingers tentatively holding the plate, taking a deep breath of his scent, and murmurs in a small, dazed epiphany, "_Woodsmoke_."

_The scent of freedom is the smell of earth and grass after rain, the smell of woodsmoke. _She remembers wondering where the thought had come from; she hadn't meant the fire. No - she'd meant _him. _The man whose arms she's found herself in_._

"Hmm?" he asks.

She looks up at him, still recovering from her shock, and swiftly takes back her hand, stepping away, her thoughts suddenly clunky and unclear in her mind. "Nothing... Nothing important," she says hastily, giving him what she sincerely hopes is a reassuring smile and walking onwards with slightly unsteady legs, her mouth dry and her mind refusing to co-operate with her.


	82. Healing

_250 reviews! *double-checks* Well, 251, actually, but thank you so much anyway. I was certainly not expecting to hit that milestone. _

_I shall also thank you with a chapter - here it is. :)_

_P.S: Don't worry, this isn't all going to be ridiculous fluff. There will be some serious plotlines about the state of Thedas and the taint soon, but for now... some (more) awkward attraction for you. Oh, and violence. My apologies for that._

* * *

><p><strong>Healing<strong>

**Alistair**

Usually they would be talking, him making ridiculous comments about darkspawn and stew, her rolling her eyes, but there's a quiet between them he's unused to.

She hasn't spoken in a long time, the occasional _squelch _as their boots hit mud the only sound, and his suddenly loud voice surprises even him. "Morgana?"

Her face is slightly pale, even more so than a Tower upbringing has made it, and she jumps at hearing her name, looking at him; then her eyes slide to the road ahead of them once again.

He frowns. "Are you all right?"

She nods, fingers coming up to absently tangle in the hair over the back of her neck, then finally meets his eye. "Just... tired," she sighs. "I think it's the past few days. I'm not thinking very clearly."

He doesn't relax, still concerned. "Maybe we should make camp," he suggests.

She shakes her head, muttering some nonsense about how she'll be fine, and the silence resumes.

* * *

><p>It's only broken by the bears that attack them, roaring filling his ears. He frowns, readying sword and shield, as one of them sets its sights on him, his blood drumming an unsteady beat in his ears.<p>

He sees Leliana's graceful dance, daggers tearing into fur and then skin, her face crumpled in concentration and frustration.

The bear runs at him, and he rolls out of the way, raising himself for another strike, when, with a _boom _and a crack of bones, a fist of rock makes contact with its face, knocking it back a few steps. It emits a confused grunt, and he looks quickly at Morrigan in surprise, but it's Morgana who still has a hand outstretched, sword aside, blood flecking her lips. Her eyes flicker to another bear charging her, and he brings his concentration back to the very angry creature in front of him, hearing rather than seeing the fireball and the yelp of the bear. He dodges it again as it comes up fighting, but its claw strikes out at the last moment, sending him sprawling and his shield skidding away from him, and he feels burning pain across his face. Gritting his teeth, seeing it approach him for a killing blow, he shoves his sword into its stomach just as it raises a claw. It's brutal, not graceful by any stretch of the imagination; he gasps, spitting out blood and getting out of the way of the falling animal.

He presses a hand to his face, feeling what seem to be a couple of nasty gashes, wincing as his palm comes away covered in red liquid - his blood. Still breathing heavily, he uses a tree to get unsteadily to his feet, and notices the brief widening of Morgana's eyes as she catches sight of him. He wonders anxiously how bad it is.

He runs to the last bear, the four of them against it, and watches as Leliana attempts to finish it off; unfortunately, with a beast this big and this strong, there's no such thing as a clean finish, and it takes Morgana, Morrigan and himself to eventually kill it.

He sheathes his sword, standing and still trying to recover his breath, about to fetch his shield. He hears the clattering of armour, and then Morgana is in front of him, removing her glove, taking his face in long-fingered mage's hands and seeming... well, not the calmest he's seen her.

"Bear claw?" she asks, her face pale, biting her lip, as she leans in to take a closer look. He nods, the motion uncomfortable, still feeling the blood on his cheek. She turns his head to see the wound in its entirety, her hands on his skin and her breath warm on his face, and he's alarmed when something uncomfortably warm seems abruptly to drop in his stomach. Suddenly acutely aware of her closeness, those wide, ocean-blue eyes gazing into his, he shuts his eyes, hoping to distract himself from whatever _this _is. It doesn't help, feel making up for lack of sight.

"There... there we go," she murmurs softly, breath tickling his ear. He feels the energy pass from her, warm and pleasant, his skin beginning to knit, hears the whisper of magic and her quiet sigh. Her hand, even with the calluses from her training, is gentle, careful; he almost doesn't feel it when her thumb lightly ghosts along his cheekbone in what he could only call... a caress. She lowly exhales, the sound only just audible in the silence between them. A small hint of a sigh escapes his lips as well, his eyes fluttering open; he catches her looking at him, hazel eyes meeting blue, and then her hand is swiftly withdrawn.

She steps back, and he spots his shield leaning against her legs, her presumably having retrieved it; she bends and hands it to him without a word, then looks at Morrigan and Leliana. "We should go," she says quickly, and they nod, beginning to move out of the clearing.

As she walks ahead of him, catching up to Leliana, he briefly touches his cheek, the skin unbroken and the odd moment still fresh in his mind. Then, sighing, he heaves the pack back onto his back and sets off after them, his thoughts still clouded.


	83. Return

_ Slightly late update. Sorry about that._

* * *

><p><strong>Return<strong>

**Zevran**

Well, the Wardens and their companions certainly know how to make an entrance.

Sitting on a log, absently throwing a pebble and snatching it from the air, he hears the ripples, the murmurs of "_Shems", _before he actually sees them. The pebble stops as he catches sight of the little group.

Looking round with gritted teeth, hair greasy and matted, Morgana wipes blood from her mouth; he notices streaks of it on her palms, and briefly wonders how it could have got there, then his attention turns to the others.

The bard is slightly better-groomed, but there are still blood spatters on her face and armour, and he sees those pretty, long-fingered hands opening and closing, opening and closing, as her gaze darts around the Dalish camp.

The witch and the other Warden are clearly bickering once again, the man glaring briefly at Morrigan before darkly muttering something; he is unsure whether to sigh or laugh.

Morgana's greeting to them is brief, curt. "Evening."

He looks up at the gore-streaked, angry woman warrior, and his mouth twitches - even in times like these, such a novelly polite greeting. How very Fereldan. "It is lovely indeed," he replies smoothly, gaze coming to rest upon her.

She looks away from him, to the rest of the camp. "Be prepared," she says to the others, her voice low. "We bring bad news to the Dalish. Zathrian's dead, and we must explain ourselves." She sighs, hastily adding, "Sorry. It _is_ good to see you all again."

Brian barks, looking at his mistress, and Wynne nods with a small, "I see."

This unfamiliar, brisk fighter looks to him, gives him a quick nod of acknowledgement, and he returns it, remembering slightly wistfully the nervous way she had clutched her sword, constantly looking to Alistair for reassurance, when he had so nearly fulfilled his contract; now he notices the situation reversed, the poorly-disguised way the man's eyes rarely stray from Morgana, and his smile widens. Oh, this trip shall be interesting indeed.

She turns and walks from the camp, followed, of course, by her fellow Warden, and his hands stray to his daggers.

They shall see what the evening brings.


	84. Opposites

**Opposites**

**Morgana**

It occurs to her, as she looks to Alistair once again - the difference between a trained warrior, practically born into it, and... well, her, a mage playing at soldiers.

He is, it seems, a man of opposites. It's the casual amble of his pace but the hand firmly on his sword hilt. It's the brief smile of reassurance he gives her, sensing her nervousness, but the way she knows him well enough to see that he's clenching his teeth, eyes taking everything in. It's the friendliness, the awkward witticisms, but the fact that he's the only friend she's ever had who can take down an _ogre _and _shrug_ afterwards.

He spots her watching him. "Something wrong?" he asks, and she shakes her head. There's a pause, as she realises that there _is_.

"Well, actually..." She lowers her voice. "... it doesn't matter if we're Wardens. The way they're _looking _at us... We're _shemlen." _

He sighs, and then replies, voice also low, "I guess we are. But we can hardly help being _human."_

She's about to get herself into what she knows will be an argument, but jumps at a laugh from nearby. An elven child runs across the clearing near them, shooting them a smile. She sees an elf, clearly the child's mother, move to stand up, expecting trouble, but, as the boy runs past, she simply returns the smile.

Lanaya looks at them warily when they arrive, taking in their blood-streaked appearance and grim expressions, and asks them of the curse, of her keeper. They try to phrase it gently - well, _Morgana _does; she spots the incredulous glare from Alistair when she says, straight-backed and straight-faced, "The curse has been cured, with his help. He died a hero."

She tells herself that it's true - he _compromised_, stopped fighting them at the end. She thinks that takes a certain amount of bravery. The words still seem bland, though, tasting off in her mouth, and she remembers recoiling from the elf mage's desperate, mad attempts at vengeance.

Worse, though, was the knowledge of what humans had done to him, to his children, the shame she suddenly felt at being one of her own _species - _a species capable of compassion, but also terrible deeds such as these_. _

A species of opposites.

She returns her mind to the conversation, waiting for accusations and arrows, but the Dalish's new keeper is accepting, and quickly pledges the elves' assistance.

She smiles gratefully, and then the two of them walk back to their camp, at the outskirts of the Dalish's, bruised, battered and bloodied.

"We need to find a river," she says, grimly. "Clean up, then... stew, I suppose."

He opens his mouth, and she glares at him, swiftly adding, "And _please, _let Leliana cook it."

* * *

><p><em>A note, seeing as the Dalish quest has been the longest story arc in this whole fic: As we (finally) move out of the Dalish camp, we move into new territory for the two Wardens. In store: Soldier's Peak, swimming, and just a bit of romance. Oh, and more reliable updates. <em>

_Expect PMs for reviews very soon - they aren't being ignored!_


	85. Exit Strategy

_Makes a large reference to chapter 10, "Ignorance". _

* * *

><p><strong>Exit Strategy<strong>

**Alistair**

He doesn't miss the resentful mutters that follow them from the Dalish camp, and still half-expects an arrow in the back as he begins to roll up his tent.

* * *

><p>He heard Morgana last night, when the nightmares struck; fatigue had outwitted them, finally winning, and the minute sleep claimed them, the Archdemon did too. He'd retired to his bedroll tense, waiting for dreams of his own: sweat-soaked, yelling, utterly undignified terror. Surely enough, they'd come.<p>

He _hadn't _expected to be woken by a faceful of canvas, spluttering and struggling to untangle himself. Crawling out half-dressed and half-asleep, muttering under his breath, it took him a moment to register Morgana standing next to the re-stoked campfire. Probably ran there after she ruined his tent.

Dressed in a loose shirt and breeches, smiling sadly, she held out an apple. He stood up and took it with a low, "Thank you," walking back to the fire, and looked back as he caught something out of the corner of his eye.

Her raised eyebrow was swiftly lowered, but her teeth were still worrying at her lip, her gaze on his back. He took in his current bedraggled state, then her expression, and tried not to let his ears redden. "I... ah... sorry."

She shook her head suddenly, then joined him, giving him a half-smile and shrugging. "Comrades-in-arms, remember?" Then she looked at the fire, and they sat in silence, the warmth of the fire equalled only by the embarrassed burn of his ears and neck. She darted him a few nervous glances when she thought he didn't notice, hands twisting in her lap (the nightmares _must_ have been bad). Was... was she _blushing? _He honestly couldn't be sure.

When he eventually returned to his tent - after setting it up again - he was too tired to dream.

* * *

><p>He yawns, looking up at the sky and preparing to lift the ridiculously heavy pack. He still has one ear on the camp, muscles contracted, ready for a fight; he tries to tell himself that the elves are recruited, that there won't <em>be <em>any fights, but the rest of him's saying otherwise.

He stands, stretching, and his eyes instantly search for Morgana. There she is, passing Wynne a couple of potions. As if she can _feel _his eyes on her - why does that thought make him cringe all over again? - she looks up, giving him a smile that's bright even through tiredness.

Well, maybe the Dalish _won't _kill them all in their sleep after all.

He heaves the pack onto his back with a sigh, sees her do the same. A swift, "Everyone ready?" A murmur of assent, then they're walking again, finally leaving the forest.

He looks beside him, but she isn't there; he turns to see her trailing back near Leliana, a frown furrowing her brow, her gaze quickly dropping from him.

To Orzammar, then. He ignores the sudden ache at the severe lack of splintmailed mage next to him, swallowing and walking onwards, his head bowed.


	86. Resistance

_There will be some re-writing of past chapters I'm not entirely happy with. Content shouldn't change, presentation may - my style has changed a lot since I started this project, and I think it shows. I may cut out some of my more rambling author's notes._

_I'm also bringing back a few elements from the earlier chapters; future instalments should be closer to some of my original ideas for this story, though many won't be as sombre as this one._

_Double update today, by the way._

* * *

><p><strong>Resistance<strong>

**Alistair**

When they make camp for the night, she removes her armour and sits by the campfire, frowning down at the treaties, and he thinks he sees her fingers shake on the weathered old parchment.

She looks up at his approach, and yes, her hands are _definitely _shaking.

"Found another one of Zevran's diagrams?" he tries hopefully, but it doesn't raise a smile.

"We have to go into Orzammar," she says, her tone one of grim finality. "Underground."

A small part of his mind (that he really hates) wonders what the problem is - she's used to being trapped by stone, she's grown up in the _Tower_, for Maker's sake. So what _is _it?

He sits next to her, thinking it over; the firelight catches something, and he sees a small vial next to her foot. He recognises the slight blue glow all too well, and swallows at seeing what could have so easily have been his leash. He silently thanks both Duncan and the Maker. _Again._

The Chantry catches up with him then, and he realises. "The lyrium down there?" The stuff unnerves him, can drive a man insane, but apparently mages are much more sensitive to it; unrefined lyrium can kill someone of magical blood.

Odd. What with the sword and the armour, he finds himself forgetting where she's come from, sometimes. He half-smiles at the memory of trailing, bloodstained blue robes and a blunt dagger, but it swiftly drops from his face as he takes in her expression.

She nods, taking a deep breath, but she's still shaking, and she looks to the vial before she can stop herself.

He stretches to pick it up, twisting it casually between two fingers and watching the liquid flow inside the glass, the blue glow it throws onto his hand. Eyes nearly as blue as the lyrium follow every movement, and he sees the swallow she tries to hide. He briefly considers what it would be like if he _had_ become a templar; if he was sitting here, unafraid of the stuff, with that kind of power over a mage...

Then he sees the fear in her eyes, wonders if she's thinking the same thing, and feels sick. He remembers the addled minds and shaking hands of his elders, the tang of it on their breath and his fear of them... He drops it with an exhalation, eyes shutting at the brittle _clink_ of glass hitting the ground.

Imprisoned by lyrium and the Chantry, or politics and a throne. Where's _his _choice, _his_ freedom?

Opening her eyes, he looks at her.

Head cocked to one side, she's watching him, a slight frown on her face, no doubt confused as to why he's acting so strangely, and, shaking himself out of his morbid thoughts, he gives her an attempt at a smile. "Look, we... we should only need to go to Orzammar. It's not like we'll be in the Deep Roads themselves." He suppresses memories of the dwarven ruins, of his fellow Wardens trying to explain what he, the novice, was feeling. Maybe a story for later; maybe not. He'd rather not fray her nerves further. "And even if we were, you'd have to be taking it in." Mages don't take it like templars; it's too strong in powdered form, hence the potions.

He _really _wishes he didn't know that.

"Is that what you were told?" Her voice is quiet, nervous.

He nods. "That, and that the Maker would smite anyone who didn't wash behind their ears."

A moment of slightly disbelieving silence, and then she smiles. "Knew you were in there under the serious templar." She grows serious. "Thank you. They never thought we'd be near raw lyrium, and they don't prepare you..." She trails off.

He belatedly realises that she was asking _him_, because of his training. He half-expects resentment, fear, tensing at memories of the days after they first met, but instead she's giving him a small, nervous half-smile, and says once again, "Thank you. Really."

She _trusts _him, it hits him suddenly, and he reaches out a hand to hers, to reassure her, to thank her, _something... _

Of course, it's then that the peace of the camp is broken by an unfamiliar cry. "Warden!"


	87. A Memory, II: Alistair

_Relates heavily to last chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>A Memory, II<strong>

**Alistair**

He swallowed as he looked at it, trying to stop his hands shaking, wiping damp palms on the hideous initiate's uniform.

How could something so small be so, well... _terrifying?_

He glanced around at the other initiates, but none of them seemed to be as nervous as him, all of them staring steadily at the templar in front of them. Drawing his eyes back to the small heap of blue powder - almost a _pretty _colour; the Maker had a sense of humour, to make something like that _pretty _- he chewed his lip.

Ser Trevor smiled in a way that was almost genial, but there was something sharklike behind it. "_This_, children... _This _is your future. Your power and your holy right."

He heard the disapproving murmur from the others at being called _children_, the comments that some of them were as tall as the templars now, and rolled his eyes, making sure the templar didn't notice it; he was still sore from the last time he'd showed any disapproval at _anything._

"This will hone what you have learned, build upon it, allow you to fulfil your true _potential_." The man's voice curled around the last word, and Alistair shifted uncomfortably, fighting to restrain his dubiousness. He knew _exactly _what this stuff was.

"We show you now to allow you to become comfortable around it; the effects may be slightly disconcerting at first, but that will soon wear off. Once you are old enough, you shall be given small doses."

_Then, _of course, he didn't know why they waited until they were a certain age - his older self can tick off a list of side-effects, including disruption of growth, madness... Things a thirteen-year-old doesn't want, and shouldn't need, to know.

There was one thing he _did _know, though, and it was through his lips before he could stop it. "Isn't lyrium... addictive, ser?"

He sighed as the other templars pulled him from the room by his ear, refusing to let his eyes water, and returned the Revered Mother's glare in full.

All he'd done was _ask._


	88. The Merchant & The Mage

**The Merchant & The Mage**

**Morgana**

She looks around at the call - then feels slightly guilty about assuming it was for her. The (technically senior) other Warden shifts next to her, frowning at the sudden intrusion.

A cart has been left on the edge of camp, and a man, panting slightly, walks to them, seeming relieved. "I'm so glad I found you."

With that, they are drawn into the tale of Levi Dryden, a simple merchant fighting to restore his family's name.

She has to admit, the thought of a Warden fortress - possibly with useful supplies - tempts her, and when Duncan's name is mentioned - the best card Levi could have played, in the situation - she sees Alistair almost imperceptibly straighten next to her, can see the thoughts in his head: this man knew Duncan, he _must _be a good sort, they should help him...

She doesn't want to leave the man hanging, either; she sees and hears the fire come into his eyes and voice when he talks about his ancestors, a Warden great-grandmother, Sophia, and can't help but feel the weight of expectation on her shoulders. She looks to her side when Alistair seems to perk up, murmuring, "I've certainly heard _her _name before - possibly when I was recruited." He frowns. "Couldn't tell you where..."

"Would you like to make camp with us for the night?" she offers politely, and sees Levi's face light up. "We may have some stew spare. We can set off in the morning, if that's all right?"

She looks to Alistair, and he nods. "Sure. The more the merrier, I suppose." They exchange a silent glance; it's a large pot, but there's _never _any stew spare - even as they have learned to control it, the Warden appetite is still a problem. They will need to survive on portions that are, well... _normal, _rather than an ogres.

Most of the group arrange themselves in a rough circle around the campfire, Morrigan retreating to her own; Morgana doesn't miss the way she looks around carefully first, however, as if to check everyone has a portion of the meal she's cooked. As they sit there, taking spoonfuls of it - Alistair keeps poking at it suspiciously and muttering things like, "Those _better _be herbs..." - Morgana gently tries, "You _know _all these things, the Grey Wardens' history... You have six months on me, and you're a fine fighter. Why don't _you _lead? I remember the Wilds - you were..." She thinks for a moment, spoon halfway to her mouth. "Almost scary, actually. _Confident_, certainly."

He looks at her in the firelight, fleeting confusion quickly turning to panic. "That was a long time ago. And anyway..." Now it's him deep in thought. "Bad things happen when I lead. People end up lost, without any pants..." He trails off, as if deep in unpleasant reflection, and then throws her a sidelong glance.

"I'm sure I don't want to know," she says hastily, wondering if it's true or if it's just his humour, almost always skewed at a pleasant angle. She clicks her fingers, nearly dropping the stew bowl in her other hand. "That's it!"

"Am I missing something?"

"After all this, the gossips... they can't call us 'Wardens'. So... You can be 'the funny one', and I can be 'the quiet, frightening mage with the sword'." She smiles at him faux-hopefully, and he looks back at her quizzically.

"What, as in, 'the danger to public society'?"

Leliana tuts, shaking her head and smiling into her soup bowl, Sten simply ignoring them and Zevran raising his eyebrows.

She rolls her eyes, seeing the merchant watching them with a keen eye and a tentative half-smile, and searches for a way to let him into the conversation. "How long have you been searching for us?"

Levi launches into a tale of navigating a cart through treacherous terrain, and she leans back on her hands, exchanging smiles with Leliana. Alistair simply raises an eyebrow at Levi's mention of werewolves.

She looks up, keeping an ear on the story, watching the skies; what Alistair told her of the constellations returns to her mind, a pleasant warmth blooming at the memory of how _new _it all was, of him laughing with her when she was still unused to freedom and trying to remember all the stories; she's almost certain he'd made up "Andraste's socks", though.

She finds her eyes meeting his, his gaze slowly turning to the sky, too, as if he knows what she's thinking - maybe he _does_. He looks back at her and gives her a grin across the campfire, confirming it.

For a small while, laughing with Levi and staring at stars, she enjoys the peace.


	89. Snow

_What with winter (and Christmas!) closing in, here's a brief snow/smite chapter before the gruelling journey to Soldier's Peak... _

_No demons or training this chapter - see, this is what I get for listening to chillout. _

_Makes heavy references to (the crisis in) chapters 42 - 46._

* * *

><p><strong>Snow<strong>

**Alistair**

* * *

><p><em>For the first time since he's known her, he thinks he truly understands what she is, why she backed away from him at Ostagar. He's seen what smites do to mages, but it's different when it's <strong>her<strong>, her on her knees and half-delirious._

_~Chapter 44, "Mage"_

* * *

><p>All Levi's talk of snowy slopes and awkward conditions at the fortress makes him sigh in resignation, remembering the trudge to Ostagar - Maker, it seems so <em>long<em> ago now, when he was just one more Warden of many, and when...

When he hadn't met Morgana, hadn't even known she _existed_. The thought's odd, feels wrong, somehow; the tentativeness of their conversations is gone now, replaced by the easy familiarity of people who've known each other for... _years_.

He realises with surprise that that's how it _feels _- it's almost as if they've known each other all their _lives_. His eyes drift to her again with that thought, wondering if she feels the same way, then he pushes it aside, mind returning to the road ahead.

He's a soldier, he can deal with harsh weather, he decides; then he remembers Haven, has a sudden memory of the mage shivering her way through the village, pale skin flushed red from cold and stray snowflakes on her lashes...

The way she'd looked up briefly, mouth opening slightly as she watched the flakes dance, and later, when she thought he wasn't looking, darted out her tongue briefly, almost unnoticeably, then returned her eyes to her sword.

Tasting the snow.

He smiles at the thought of one more flicker of her old naïveté from the Tower, still there under the angry, frighteningly blank façade she used to wear for him, the templar. He still winces, stomach twisting uncomfortably, at the time he'd had to smite her, how she'd backed away from him, his touch, in terror, cursing him, and wonders once more how the mages are treated in their Tower.

They take watch together, after he's made an effort to clean up the remnants of stew, Levi going to sleep next to his cart; Alistair joins her by the fire, watching the flames, but he's frowning, his troubles obvious.

Her question surprises him. "What are you thinking?"

He pulls at his gauntlets, looking anywhere but her, until he finally asks what he _needs _to ask, finally looking her in the eye and suddenly unable to drag his gaze away. "Do you still... Would you still call me a templar?"

He doesn't miss the flicker of surprise as well as firelight in her eyes, and she exhales slowly, looking away from him. "Why do you ask?"

Another flash of her on the ground, kicking out at him, eyes still alight from the lyrium he'd had to give her, building the wall between them all over again, comes to him, and he tries to ignore it. "I just... Well..." He runs a hand through his hair in discomfort, not speaking of the elephant in the camp: the smite. "Forget I asked. It's not important." He looks at the ground, examining the dirt, but jumps at the hand on his shoulder; a jolt runs through him, sudden and almost painful, at the simple touch - another memory, of how _surprised_ she always seemed when he tried to reassure her the same way.

When he looks up, she is smiling, and has her other hand to her lips in thought. "Well, let's see - you didn't murder me for being a mage, you gave up Chantry secrets and taught me how to resist smites... No, I don't think so."

"Even with the...?" He makes a slightly despairing hand gesture, and sees her tense; it's subtle, a shifting of muscle under the shoulders of her shirt, but it's there.

"The smite? You think I haven't forgiven you for that? For Maker's sake... Half the time, I forget all of it. Forget your... your blood, too." She stutters on that last point, and he wonders at her nervousness; she's not the one with a possible unwanted crown looming over her head. "Can you just be... Alistair, for a while?"

He stares at her for a moment, breath leaving him, and shrugs, spirits lifting, looking back to the fire. "Why not?"

They watch the fire, just Alistair and Morgana, and he wonders about getting her a cloak for the journey.


	90. Five Sovereigns

**Five Sovereigns**

**Morgana**

She's woken by Leliana, looking surprisingly fresh for a woman who's just come off watch; sticking her head in her tent, the ex-bard smiles. "Wake up, sleepyhead!"

Morgana emits a very unladylike groan, rubbing a hand over her face and untangling herself from her bedroll. "'M awake," she mutters, and Leliana steps out of the tent with a trill of, "Breakfast is waiting!"

She looks longingly back at her bedroll, then sighs, pulling on her clothing and ducking out to the campfire, preparing to find a river later; she winces at the daylight.

Something's missing, and it takes her a moment to realise that it's the slightly bleary - at this time in the morning - presence of Alistair. She swears, they're getting as bad as each other; a good, undisturbed night's sleep is damn near impossible for a Warden to have, and it shows. Leliana gives her a sly smile, saying, "He's over there. I know you were about to ask."

She finds her cheeks heating, and looks down into her porridge for a moment before following Leliana's hand with her eyes.

Obviously having been caught out by time again, he's leaning against a tree, deep in meditation, hands on his knees. She cocks her head, watching him; she's certain she'll never look _that_ peaceful - the first time she tried to meditate, after many years of rustiness, she'd opened her eyes to see him trying desperately to hold back a laugh. When she asked him _what _exactly was so funny, he'd replied with a grin, "You're trying too hard. You look _constipated. Relax _into it."

After a quick breakfast and a dip in the river with someone's soap - she recognises the familiar smell of lye from the Tower, and realises with surprise and a little embarrassment that she's grabbed Alistair's in a rush, rather than Leliana's frilly Orlesian stuff - she wanders back into camp and asks to see Levi's stocks, remembering that both her and Alistair's armour is starting to show its wear. The merchant seems more than a little shocked, but nods, and then is enthusiastic about trying to sell her _everything _in his Blighted cart.

Aware that she probably looks ridiculous with her legs nearly dangling out of it, she moves aside the flimsy, basic chainmail and the leather stuff - perhaps for Leliana, but she refuses to leave her legs vulnerable to the world - until she happens upon... Oh. More splintmail. She turns it over, noticing that this seems heavier - and shinier, she notices with a slight smile - than her usual armour. Still weighing it in her hand, she jumps at the voice of her fellow Warden, close behind her. "Silverite, from the look of it."

"I... I see," she murmurs, still frowning at it - of course, expecting to stay in robes all her life, she knows _nothing _about this sort of thing; once again, she thinks she's lucky to have him around. "A little help, perhaps?"

He pauses, and she can just _tell _he's laughing about her ridiculous position in the cart; then he joins her, leaning an elbow over the side and grinning at her. "Still have the old Fade Striders, I see."

Ah. The boots she found in the Tower. _Wait... _She glares at him, remembering where her legs are at _this _particular moment. "Alistair, have you been watching my _rear?_"

The words are out of her mouth without thought, and she's unsure whether to repent or burst out laughing when he pales, then looks as if he's about to flush very, very badly, running a hand through his hair and looking to the sky. "Of course not. As if I _would_. That would just be..." He trails off. "A-ny-way... You said you needed help with the armour?"

She lets him off the hook, handing him the set. "Thought you might need this. Seems in fairly good condition, but..."

He checks it over with the practised eye of a soldier, then looks back to her. "It's certainly serviceable, and it's better than what I have. I'll just pay Levi..."

She shakes her head. "I'll settle it. Now I just need to find a good female set."

She looks around with plenty of _clanks _and crunches, eventually finding another set of splintmail. She looks back to her fellow Warden - she can't help feeling that it's become somewhat of a uniform, and, oddly, she's glad to pick it up; it feels like... being in it together, somehow. She passes it to Alistair, notices him raise an eyebrow, and climbs ungracefully out of the cart, then thanks and pays Levi.

"Oh, no, Warden, thank _you_," he smiles.

She notices Alistair frowning, staring at her, and asks, "A problem?"

He shakes his head hastily. "Oh, not at all. Just... It's not important."

They go their separate ways to change into their splintmail, and when she comes back, she straps on her belt, surprised at how heavy it is.

Leliana smiles, standing, at she notices her friend look back over her shoulder at Alistair, wondering why.

They are soon packed, heaving rucksacks onto their backs, and begin to take the road at a slow pace, behind Levi.

They have barely set off when she hears Leliana giggle, and turns. "Oh, Alistair," the woman sighs, "is there a reason you are _sniffing _her?"

Both Wardens simultaneously redden - quite a sight to behold - and he mutters something that sounds like, "Dog upbringing," before looking sheepishly to Morgana, and asking in an undertone, "Do mages really use _Chantry soap?_"

Pretending she doesn't hear Leliana's, "Oh, how sweet!" from behind them, she grits her teeth and replies smoothly, "Indeed they do. Brings back memories of apprenticeship." That part's true, at least; she'd just stopped using it when she'd gained a friend with slightly less skin-grating soap.

He nods, with a, "Makes sense, I suppose," returning his eyes to the road, and they trudge on, her looking for her Reflection amulet in her belt; there's a _clink _that isn't jewellery, however, and she lifts her hand out to find five heavy gold sovereigns resting in her palm. She thinks for a moment, recounting the price of the armour, and looks at him. He avoids her gaze, and she rolls her eyes, before she says, "It really wasn't needed, but... thank you, Alistair." She finds the amulet, and Leliana, not far behind, starts to put it on her for convenience's sake.

He looks up in surprise, giving her a small smile. "Not a problem."

They spend a few minutes in companionable silence, then he calls to Levi to stop. It hits her, the newer Warden, a half-second after him.

Darkspawn.

She ducks the fireball aimed at her by an emissary - no, _two_ - and sees Alistair tense beside her. Shrugging off their packs and drawing their swords, she sees him slowly exhale, flexing his fingers, and knows what will come next. He looks at her cautiously, asking permission, and she tells herself she will _not _flinch; she nods, backing away and praying the meditation and his lessons have paid off.

He glances at her one last time, and she sees something unfamiliar in his eyes, before unleashing an onslaught of pure will.


	91. Light

_Makes a slight reference to chapter 48, "Harm"._

* * *

><p><strong>Light<strong>

**Alistair**

It feels like icewater and steel running through his veins, the baited breath before a battle; pure, primal, glorious, almost painful in its intensity.

He has to step back, panting slightly, as he lets it go, _feels _the Veil solidify, a silk curtain suddenly turning to a stone wall.

Panic seizes him as he sees Morgana thrown against a tree, almost falling, the enchantments on their weapons flickering out; she shuts her eyes, catches herself just in time, and pulls herself up. He waits for the panic or the anger, the memories, but when she looks at him, she gives him a nod and the smallest half-smile he's ever seen. She takes advantage of the stunned quiet it leaves in its wake, the emissaries drained and still groggy, and is on them quicker than he's ever seen her, all bloodstreaked dragonbone and wild eyes.

He has to stop himself doubling up; there's nothing quite like the aching, drained feeling you get after a smite, the sudden crushing emptiness after being so full of... whatever it is. He doubts that it's "the Maker's holy light", somehow, no matter what he was told. He looks up to see a genlock running at him, daggers held in its stubby claws, grinning with serrated teeth, and things snap back into focus. He raises his shield and glares at it. "Come on, then."

It does, and he finishes it quickly and cleanly. He is back in battle, and his blood is singing the same way theirs is; he is always waiting for the inevitable sword, tooth, or claw to get through his guard, finally strike the blow that will end things, but it never comes. Somewhere in the blood and iron, a dagger catches him in the shoulder, between the plates, cutting deep; teeth gritted, he simply pulls it out, barely hearing his own cry of pain, and tosses it aside.

He feels the Fade beginning to seep through now, the flexibility of the Veil returning, and watches the enchanted flames lick at his blade, feels a sudden warm glow down his arm; he rolls his newly-healed arm, even knowing it will need treatment later, and looks to Morgana, mouthing his thanks - she grins, and returns her eyes to the last hurlock. Leliana and Morrigan are also watching it, both ready to strike.

A dance, half-whispers of magic, a grunt and a squeal. It's over, and he breathes again at last, sheathing his sword and wiping blood from his face.

When he looks round, Levi is standing by his cart, staring at them, wide-eyed; he doesn't miss the step back the merchant takes as they make to re-join him. He looks to Morgana, who raises her eyebrows, and they shrug at each other.

She asks if they need to rest for a couple of minutes, and almost all seize the opportunity. Levi is still watching them out of the corner of his eye.

She walks over to a fallen tree, perches on it, and he finds himself joining her. She has a hand to her head, elbow resting on her knee, and she's shaking. He looks at her in concern, heart sinking. The smite. "I'm sorry... I knew it was a bad idea, I should have thought..." He dares to put a hand on her shoulder, wondering if she'll slap it away, and feels her jump. The shaking slows, pretty much stops, and she looks up, giving him what she must think is a reassuring smile. "Don't worry. I'm just slightly drained still. I'm not _angry _with you. I told you, I trust you."

He looks up, eyes meeting hers, and the look is longer than it should be, searching for something. Her eyes slide from his, and she coughs. "I should probably take a look at that shoulder."

"You don't have to. I mean, you're still drained, and we aren't that far from camp... Really, you don't have to heal me. Probably shouldn't, actually."

She gives him a wide grin, and replies quietly, returning his words from weeks ago, "I know. But I like to." She shifts round to his other side. He winces, hissing in pain as he unbuckles the right plates, pulling them off and rolling up his shirtsleeve; blood, both red and black, sticks it to what he can feel is a deep gash, still not completely closed from her help earlier - sure enough, she sucks in a breath when she reaches it.

"I... Nothing I haven't seen in the Tower," she lies, her voice firm, and lays a hand on his arm; her hand is warm, fingers softly sliding over muscles and unlocking the tension in them, touch soft and careful. Almost... shy, he suddenly thinks. Eyes set straight ahead, he watches the trees in front of them, feeling goosebumps rise in the wake of her hand. He swallows, throat suddenly dry, as the magic does its work, listening to her breathing; it's uneven, shaky, and he feels a twinge of regret as he thinks that the smite must have affected her worse than he thought. Even gentler than before, her hand moves from the gash to trace a pattern over his shoulder blade, almost affectionately, and he fails to suppress the shiver that suddenly runs through him, eyes shutting briefly. She stops, fingers moving back up to close the gash, her hand staying on his arm a moment as she manipulates it to check him over.

"I was serious, you know," he says softly, the words out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"Hmmm?" She is distracted, her voice far away, still looking at his wound.

"When I said I'd never hurt you. I meant it. I'm sorry I did."

The hand on his arm stops, falls, and she looks at him. "I know," she replies quietly, "and you didn't. I'm drained, but I'm not _hurt, _and you're not a templar."

He thinks it's the first time he's ever heard her say it properly, simply, like _that_; like it doesn't _matter, _like it never _has. _He doesn't know why his hand falls to hers, fingers closing round her slender, pale ones, and he doesn't know why he hears her swallow. "You do _not _know how long I've waited to hear that," he says, his voice coming out rougher, lower than expected.

She opens her mouth as if to say something, but can't seem to grasp it; the look in her eyes changes suddenly, to something almost _scared_, and she looks away from him. "Everyone ready?" she calls, the hush of the moment broken, and he gently removes his hand, stepping away and beginning to buckle up his armour, his head oddly light and his mouth still dry.

He looks to his side, but she is further away, leaning against a tree, her eyes on the sky. As he walks past her, about to help Levi pack up his supplies, he reads her lips. She is mouthing silent curses, one after another.


	92. Supposed To Be

_Continuation of the previous chapter, "Light", and an explanation for Morgana's behaviour._

* * *

><p><strong>Supposed To Be<strong>

**Morgana**

Andraste's flaming _knickerweasels._

She sees the others pack up out of the corner of her eye, knows they will have to go soon; after all, she has just asked them to move on. She sees him walk past her, glancing at her in surprise, and knows how odd she must look. She ignores them.

Bloody... kind... _bastard..._

It hit her, sitting there with his earnest words echoing in her ears, her hand clasped tightly in his - and no-one else ever _touches _her, they never _did_, not even in the Tower, so why does she allow _him?_ - and his eyes locked with hers; a searing, chilling epiphany, singing in her veins and leaving her light headed and red-cheeked under his gaze.

Oh, Dear Maker, it's _him. _The second man that she meets out of the Tower, as emotionally crippled by a Chantry-dictated life as she is, with a terrifying, seemingly impossible mission hanging over their heads.

Not sure whether to be joyful or horrified, she hurls silent insults at the sky instead, one thought refusing to leave her head:

It wasn't supposed to _be_ like this_._

He was _supposed _to be a templar, and she was _supposed _to be a mage, and they were _supposed _to hate each other until one of them eventually managed to murder the other. She certainly _wasn't _supposed to _understand _him, or _befriend_ him, or... _this._

She swallows, finally accepts the truth she's been ducking and dodging for weeks.

It's no longer friendship, probably hasn't been for a while. After all, her heart doesn't jump into her throat when _Leliana _smiles; the other night, she didn't find herself surreptitiously tracing the lines of the _bard's _face in the firelight with her eyes, as if to memorise them. No, it's _him_ she makes excuses to heal for the contact; _his _humour that makes her heart a little warmer and makes her remember why she came to him; it's _his _presence that she feels emptier without, his warmth that she seeks like a moth to a flame.

She knows, too, that he trained as a templar, even if he isn't one, and that some lessons stay with you, aren't easily shaken off; she remembers the way she met him, his nervousness at discovering she was a mage, and her heart sinks.

No. He will never... Not a mage. It goes against everything he was ever taught.

However, there are the other memories, too, of him checking her over after both smites, of his shock at Cullen's mage hatred, of him never having wanted to go to the Chantry...

She frowns, looking back to her companions. This is solving nothing. Unsurprisingly, her eyes drift to him.

This has never happened before, and the truth is... she's sure she's not supposed to be _frightened._

She shakes her head, and stands on shaking legs, heaving a rucksack onto her back. "To Soldier's Peak?" she asks, her voice coming out slightly hoarse from a dry throat, and shuts away Morgana. She is a Warden, if just for a little while, and this will not let this affect her mission.

She is also lying, and she knows it from the way she sneaks a glance at him as he fidgets, his gaze directed at a barking Brian, and finds her eyes staying unnecessarily, admiring him. This is more difficult to simply... _switch off _than she had imagined. He looks up suddenly, and she quickly looks away, walking to Levi and asking him to check that his supplies are intact from the attack.

They soon start walking again, and then Alistair is next to her, concerned and far too... _there, _all of a sudden_. _"Look, is something wrong?"

Ah. He is talking about her odd behaviour. She shakes her head, praying the cold will stop the warmth in her face and grasping for excuses. "I... No. My boots are practically worn through, and there are no spares. We have quite a walk ahead of us."

He nods, cocks his head in consideration. "They might be reparable, actually. They did teach us in the Chantry how to patch things up, so I'll see what I can do."

He's helping her, yet _again, _in a way that's so very... _him _- small and awkwardly offered, but sincere_. _This is not helping the matter of her unwelcome thoughts.

He brightens. "Well, at least it's not something _I've _done this time."

She smiles, letting out a small, bitter little laugh under her breath. Oh, little does he know.

* * *

><em>Some romangst for you - a sudden chapter to try and translate the suddenness of Morgana's realisation. In my headcanon, the mages are discouraged from relationships at all, or from any that are more than physical, hence her surprise at an actual emotional bond with someone. I guess that's what an incredibly psychologically unhealthy upbringing does for you.<em>


	93. Fear

_In which Morgana finally loses patience with her friend's defence of the Chantry and questions of faith. I didn't mean for this chapter to be quite so... angry, but - though I love the character - I find Leliana's ignorance of the Chantry's treatment of elves and mages frankly astonishing. Addresses that, and attempts to explain why I couldn't, in all good conscience, make Morgana an Andrastian. _

_P.S: There is an important reason the Chantry is returning to the foreground, but all I can say is an annoying, "You'll see..."_

* * *

><p><strong>Fear<strong>

**Leliana**

The walk is long, and she winces. These Fereldan boots - for all that Morgana says they're comfortable, blisters appear to be forming on blisters.

Speaking of the mage...

Her friend is up ahead, frowning at something Alistair has said and waving a hand in exasperation; Leliana speeds up slightly, falling into step with them. "Is something troubling you?"

Alistair looks up from his contemplation of Morgana's feet, seeming startled. "What? No. She says her boots are wearing out."

Leliana raises an eyebrow at the other woman. She has heard nothing of this.

He sighs. "I offered to fix them for her, but she's determined to do it herself." He puts on a mock-hurt tone.

Morgana glares at him. "I _can_ hold a needle, believe it or not."

He holds his hands up in surrender, taking a couple of steps back, but grins. "I'm sure you all had to stitch your own robes in the Circle."

"We _did, _actually," Morgana counters, dropping back to walk with her and asking lowly, "Were all the brothers in the Chantry like this, or is it an Alistair thing?"

A laugh escapes her before she can stop it. "An... 'Alistair thing'?" She smiles. "No, few were. There are always some, but most were pious. Quiet. The ones that couldn't settle were... sad children. The ones that could, left quickly. The others, that chose devotion, or were already being trained..." It is a slight movement of the eyes, almost unnoticeable, but she sees Morgana's gaze slide silently to Alistair once more, sees the tense set of his shoulders and knows he can hear every word. "Yes," she confirms quietly. "But Morgana, you must understand - being a templar is a great honour. Andraste's soldiers are respected, trusted, _feared_; in Orlais..."

A quiet exhalation next to her. The other woman's eyes are fixed on a point ahead of them, her voice quiet - dangerously so. "To some. It confines others." She swallows. "It drove Cullen... mad. Made him into the things they talked about in the dormitories. Wandering eyes, hands too quick to reach for a sword. Or a smite."

She has learned from years of espionage to watch those around you carefully. Levi is eyeing them curiously, Morrigan and Zevran silently following the exchange with interest. Sten is utterly disinterested, trudging forward with eyes set on the horizon, a hand absently trailing along the fur on Brian's head. Alistair is walking ahead of them, not missing a beat, fighting to unclench his fists at his side and failing.

"The work of blood mages, not the Chantry," she protests.

"No. You don't understand," Morgana continues, and something in her eyes snaps. Her control, perhaps. "You take comfort in the Chant, relate to it. Some of my friends did, and I don't think I'll ever understand that. Me? I've had it _jammed _into my head - " She stabs a finger violently to her temple. " - Since I was four years old, telling me what an _abomination _I was, how I shouldn't exist. How I must be a servant and a prisoner because of magic I never _chose." _ A pause._ "_A girl I knew, she used to pray every day. She'd cry, quietly, but we'd always hear her." The mage's eyes are far away. "I thought it was maybe to see her family again, or that she might be in pain, that the templars might have... gone above and beyond the call of duty." Her voice is sour, and that light, that flame, is behind her eyes again. She looks to Leliana, mouth twisting. "I asked her, once, and she told me it was to rid her of the _curse_ of her magic, to make her _right _again_. _Or for death. Better dead than a mage_."_

This is... No. She has seen the verses - "_magic must serve man and never rule over him_" - but they are _guidelines. _The same goes for the sword and the arrow. She realises something then, and turns to Morgana. "Four years old?" she asks, the question small and cautious.

Morgana nods, looking at the ground. "I can recite the entirety of the Canticle of Transfigurations, but I can't remember my parents' faces." She looks up, and there is something hard and cold behind her eyes. Leliana recognises that look; once, what seems like a long time ago now, it was reserved for Alistair. "Now, think about it." She looks to the man in front of them, and refuses to hide her gaze this time. "He had the same, every day, since he was ten summers old. Mages are evil, an affront to the Maker, a danger to all around them. To pity them, to recognise them as human, to... to _want_ them, is a sin. They are taught to hate us for something the magisters did, to see us as abominations waiting to happen. We are taught to see them as demons in metal masks, able to make us powerless at a whim." She lets out a breath. "Can you not see why I was afraid of him?"

Leliana levelly meets her gaze, blue to blue, and thinks she finally does.


	94. Breathe

_300 reviews! I'm still reeling. Thank you all who've contributed to make that number as big as it is, as well as newer readers - thank you again, karebear, who has stuck with this from the beginning and indulged me in rants about the plight of mages (God, I'm turning into Anders). Enjoy the rest of the story. :)_

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><p><strong>Breathe<strong>

**Alistair**

Scared? Of him?

He nods to Levi, the merchant giving him a nervous grin, and looks to Morgana; she's sitting on a tree stump, strumming a few notes on the lute she and Leliana seem to share. She and the bard haven't spoken for a while, something hanging in the air between them, Leliana looking rather sad and avoiding Morgana's eye. He knows that it's the conversation he heard earlier, the one that's still rattling around his head as well. _Scared _of him? _Him? _He'd always assumed it was some sort of irrational anger - in fact, he thinks he'd _prefer _irrational anger to fear. He reassures himself that she used past tense, and remembers her words. "_I trust you._" He finds himself smiling.

The music floats across the camp.

He thinks he recognises the tune, an old Fereldan folk song the other Wardens used to sing at camp, and absentmindedly finds himself humming along. She looks up, hearing him, and asks, "Training?"

He nods, and she sighs, putting aside the instrument; for a moment, he thinks he sees her hands shake, but knows it's just his imagination. She stands, not meeting his eye, and gestures to the edge of camp. "Shall we?"

She picks up her sword, still in its scabbard, and they head to a spot a short distance away from camp, sitting in the grass, their hands on their knees. He frowns as he sees her - she's looking distinctly pale. "You sure you're feeling up to this?"

She nods, eyes fluttering closed. He watches her face a moment, enjoying the serenity he finds there, and listens to her breaths settle. Then she frowns, biting her lip, and he knows she's not quite there yet. He places a hand gently on her arm, feels her jump, her eyes opening. He leans towards her, and says softly, "Don't _try _for it. Just breathe, and let the thoughts leave." For a moment, they look at each other, then she nods, eyes closing again. He watches the slow rise and fall of her breath, blushing and looking away at where his eyes have inevitably fallen, and waits for her.

When she opens her eyes, she is calm, a slight flush suffusing her cheeks but her breathing steady. She stands, then, drawing her sword, looks at him, a slow, calculating expression upon her face, and says simply, "Do your worst."

It takes him a shorter time to get into the state of mind, but he fixes his eyes on her, cutting off the part of his mind that screams at him every time he does this that _this is Morgana, you idiot! _and focusing on the magic he can feel humming in the air around them. He releases it, expecting her to fall, and she stumbles with a shout; then she stabs her sword into the ground at her side, putting her weight onto it and stopping herself. An incredibly dangerous movement, but it's worked. Still holding onto her sword, bent double and panting - and she's drained, every Chantry-trained bone in his body can feel it - she looks up and grins at him, pulling messy hair out of her face.

He returns it, trying to ignore the echoing emptiness that always seems to come after a smite these days; he supposes he's used to her magic, and the lack of its warm, cushioning presence flowing around him is disconcerting.

He offers a hand, and she takes it; the warmth of her smaller, thinner hand in his is comforting somehow, and when she's climbed to her feet, he has to fight his disappointment at its absence.

What is _happening _to him? he asks himself once again, for what must be the hundredth time.

It slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. "You were afraid of me?"

She's pulling her sword out of the ground, but stops at his words. "You heard that? I... I suppose I was."

"But... why? I mean, I know I was afraid of you..."

She turns to him, raising her eyebrows. "Really? That's surprising."

"Ohhh yes. Remembering the toad comment..." He looks to the sky wistfully, then grimaces. "Still makes me wince."

She laughs, a soft low sound, and he can't remember when he last heard it. Maybe he never has. "Not anymore, I hope. I thought... I thought you were something you weren't." She sighs. "Let's say... You trust my magic, and I'll trust your smites and your sword." She reaches out a hand.

He shrugs. "Makes sense, I suppose." He clasps her hand once again, shaking it gently, and jumps as a strange warmth fills it, spreading up his arm and leaving a trail of heat in its wake; he freezes, and their eyes meet, something he can't quite grasp swirling in hers that isn't magic - he feels that familiar breath of her power round him once again, here less than it was before the smite, but _here._

"Rejuvenation spell," she says, smiling. "Nothing to be frightened of."

His thumb brushes one of her fingers, seemingly of its own accord, and then he hastily releases her hand, hoping she hasn't noticed, and returns her smile, nodding. "Nothing to be frightened of."


	95. Teachings

_Thank you for the kind words - I'm glad the pacing seems to be right, and I'm blown away at how naturally Morgana and Alistair have developed in my head; I'd PM you all individually, but this is a 2:30 AM update for me, and even fanfic writers must sleep._

_Some girlie friendship time in this chapter, I think, since these Morgana and Leliana haven't really been discussed much recently - continuation, partly, of chapter 93, "Fear" and references "Exit Strategy", too._

* * *

><p><strong>Teachings<strong>

**Leliana**

They shiver at the temperature of the water; though it is warm down here - they are not yet on the mountain leading to Soldier's Peak - Fereldan water is never _pleasant._

Unusually, Morgana wades to shore, drying off as best she can and finding smallclothes, and sits there, watching her reflection, a small frown crinkling her brow. Not vanity, then.

It takes her a long time to find the courage to do the same and sit next to Morgana, the mage looking up at the noise.

Leliana hesitates a moment before saying quietly, "The Chant teaches us that we must recognise our sins and our flaws." There is a puzzled silence beside her, and she continues, "I... was wrong, I think now. I apologise. I didn't think, I hadn't... I am not a mage. I could not have known."

The mage gazes at her a moment longer, in silence, and then replies, "I'm sorry. I was sharp with you. We just... I grew up in a Tower where that treatment was the norm. You think _everyone _knows..." Morgana sighs. "I still don't understand it, all _this." _She makes a sweeping gesture to their surroundings.

"This?" Leliana asks softly. A sensitive subject, she senses, and she must tread carefully here.

"Ferelden. People outside the Tower. A... " Morgana stops abruptly, swallowing. "It's only been a few months, and it's all so... new. It frightens me, if I'm honest." She gives a nervous little laugh.

"I have lived in this world all my life, and I will _never _understand it." Leliana smiles, kicking gently at the water and watching the ripples spread.

"Perhaps you're right." Morgana lies back on the grass, basking in the sun, and Leliana joins her, the two of them utterly unselfconscious. They have been travelling together for months, seen all there is to see.

There is a pleasant silence, broken only by Morgana eventually asking, "What was it like, when you were with Marjolaine? Before it all went wrong?"

Leliana is surprised by the question, and has to think for a moment; the memories come flooding back, and she has to fight them, but a smile spreads on her face as she watches a sky, the memories of her bardmaster's kiss, her scent irresistible. "It was... It was the sweetest kind of torture." She sighs. "What they write of in tales. To be so utterly reliant on one person, who can shatter you into pieces; to want to be with them always, to seek them out in a room; and their _eyes_... Oh, you know, that first, sweet haze of new love." She watches the clouds dreamily, lost in the better times.

"I... I don't, actually," Morgana admits, voice small, and Leliana turns her head to look at her in surprise.

"Don't tell me you have never been in _love_..."

Morgana can't look at her, face reddening slightly. "No. I... I don't think so."

Leliana looks at her in sympathy. "I wouldn't worry. You will find someone, and you will know who they are when you do. They will make you _happy_. You feel as if you've known them _forever..._" Another sigh.

She hears Morgana swallow beside her, and the mage says nothing; at first she looks... well, _afraid _is all she can call it, but then she smiles, eyes still on the sky - but her eyes are alight, far away, for a moment.

Leliana frowns, but Morgana changes the subject, clearing her throat. "The, er, the swimming... It'll be too cold on the mountain, and I don't suppose...?"

"Of course," she says, standing. "Would you like to start now?"

Morgana looks at her in horror for a moment, but manages to nod mutely.


	96. Dulce

**Dulce**

**Zevran**

Morrigan returns from the lake, glaring at them, and Alistair, sitting with elbows on knees, observes, "They've been a while..."

Morrigan looks at him briefly, then turns away her gaze contemptuously, striding to her tent with the words, "They are not bathing. The bard appears to have the fool notion of teaching your fellow Warden to swim."

The templar gazes at her, open-mouthed, for a moment lost in thought; he tries and fails to hide the slight reddening of his ears. "Ah." A pause, his eyes straying unconsciously to the tree line. "Right." Zevran watches him amusedly across the fire, wondering what sort of pleasant images are in his head, as the Warden looks determinedly at the dirt, swallowing. Poor fellow.

Morgana and Leliana return short minutes afterwards, clad in loose tunics, hair still dripping down their backs. He notices that the mage is slightly pale and out of breath, looking round the camp shyly and refusing to meet anyone's eye; he grins widely and slightly lecherously at her, giving her "the Lone Wolf, number three", and raises his eyebrows. He lets his tongue wrap around the words, caressing them as his eyes do the same to her. "I did not know they called it 'swimming' in Ferelden."

Eyes widening, she blushes, the whiteness induced by this country's freezing water abruptly fleeing her face. Oh, this is almost as enjoyable as playing with the other Warden. Almost.

"Leave her, Zevran," Leliana and Alistair say in chorus, looking at each other in astonishment, while Morgana herself tries not to laugh.

"Besides, I think her tastes lie elsewhere," Leliana adds with a sweet, devilish smile, walking away to dry her hair.

Alistair catches Morgana's arm as she makes to walk past him, eyes concerned, and Zevran sits, lazily lip-reading.

_You look a little..._

_I'm fine, Alistair. I'm just... glad to be learning. I can't yet. She says it might take a time, but I'm more comfortable than I was._

_Good. You... gave me a scare in the forest. _The templar gives a nervous laugh to try and cover the depth of feeling in the statement, but Zevran remembers Leliana's recounting of the tale, of how he was apparently wild-eyed and terrified as he took her from the pool. _And if it'll make all... this... easier for you, I guess it's good, right?_

The female Warden simply looks at Alistair for a moment, eyes aglow in the firelight, his hand still resting on her arm, and Zevran shakes his head in frustration at their ignorance, recognising the look in her eyes all too well; it is mirrored in the templar's. Then she smiles. _I hope so. _She steps back, walking across to her pack, and the man watches her go, eyes seemingly unable to leave her.

She is talking with Leliana about something when Zevran says, as casually as he can, "She is quite the woman, is she not?" His eyes flicker to Alistair, watching the man's reaction carefully.

Alistair tenses instinctively, looking at his boots. "I... I suppose so. I mean, she's recruited the elves, saved the Arl..." His voice trails off.

"_Si, _but that is not necessarily what I am speaking of. She is..." He tries to find the word, murmuring eventually, "_Dulce." _Whether she _is_ is beside the point - he will poke until he has a reaction. Ah, how he has missed this.

_"What?_" Alistair asks sharply, raising his head; the use of Antivan, as expected, has clearly discomfited him.

"She seems... sweet," he clarifies.

The Warden raises a sceptical eyebrow. "'Sweet'? You called her a 'deadly sex goddess', if I remember rightly," he remarks, Fereldan accent wrapping comfortably round his usual shield of sarcasm.

"Oh, yes," he replies. "She is that also. If I may say so, she does have _quite _the..."

There it is, the Warden turning red. Zevran carefully keeps the triumph from his face as Alistair exclaims, "I am _not _talking about her like this! She's... She's my fellow Warden, and my friend, and this is just _wrong. _And stop _looking _at her like that."

"Looking at her?" Zevran asks innocently, making sure to look at her _exactly _like _that._

"Yes, like she's... a fine cheese, or something. I don't know." Alistair runs a hand down his face with an exasperated sigh.

A fine cheese? How very... _eloquent. _Zevran struggles not to laugh. "I see. But surely you have also looked at her this way?"

Astonishingly, Alistair turns even redder. "No. Never," he says, stumbling over the lies, eyes straying to her once again. "I... don't... think about her like that..."

Zevran stands, saying smoothly, "I am sure," and leaving the Warden to squirm.


	97. A Memory: Zevran

_Overtaken by the festive spirit, I wanted to try some more unusual POVs, rather than just Leliana's and our noble (and occasionally hapless) Wardens' - hence the next couple of chapters here._

_I said there would be more Zevran... (Please don't hate me for tormenting him.)_

_From very light to very dark - another attempt at Zevran's POV, and the tragedy of the whole Zevran/Rinna story._

* * *

><p><strong>A Memory<strong>

**Zevran**

He should have _learned. _

He grew up in the presence of whores who laughed and "loved" for money, and then there were the Crows, calm, cold-eyed killers.

He was not supposed, not _allowed, _to _feel._

Of course, he did _not _learn, did he? She came into his life, with her laughing eyes and her sweet voice, and he let her in, like a fool. Let _them _in, gave them a weak spot, a chink in his beautifully-polished, shining armour.

The price was paid in betrayal and blood, eventually, those laughing eyes - now pleading with him - losing their spark. She was so _cold_, afterwards, an empty shell_. _He had watched someone die and _cared_, and perhaps that horrified him more than the death itself.

If he had simply paid attention to what was taught to him, hadn't cast it aside in a moment of foolish abandon...

If he had learned, she would not haunt his dreams.


	98. Old Friends

**Old Friends**

**Levi**

These Wardens seem decent, but they're... a bit _strange_, to say the least. Not like the tales he's heard of his great-gran.

Well, they are in _some _respects_. _Watching them fight is... bloody terrifying, really, though he'd never say it to their faces.

He's sure that the Grey never used to be this _young. _He's used to keeping the company of grizzled, scarred Wardens that are more than a little intimidating to a humble merchant - even Duncan used to be a little uncomfortable round the older ones. These two, though...

It's obvious once they've put the weapons away, in her stammering, and the way she sometimes pretends not to stare at the fellow. He slaps a palm to his face. Honestly, is the other Warden _blind?_

Looks like it.

He sighs, thinking that they really need someone to bang their heads together. Duncan would probably have done it... Maker, he still misses his old friend, knows of the story of the Ostagar tragedy. He knows that the other Warden does too; he's heard him mention the man's name, saw something shift behind his eyes when he said Duncan was an old friend.

He finally realises after a week on the road, when he hears them speaking in hushed tones by the fire.

"You should speak to him. He'll understand."

"I don't know... It just seems so... Maybe it's not my place. I only knew the man for six months, after all."

"Stop it."

"_What?_"

"You'll have a good idea, and then you'll talk yourself out of it. You were the same outside your sister's house."

"Yes, and that turned out _so _well..."

"You know now, don't you? Instead of wondering for the rest of your life. You've seen her, and you know a little of her." She adds in an undertone, "You know she's..." A long pause. The younger Warden clears her throat, her tone brighter. "Certainly not worth spending money on."

The other - Alistair, that was it - laughs. "Well, that's one way of putting it."

"Just _speak_ to him. And _trust_ yourself for once. No wonder you didn't want to be king."

What in Andraste's name - ?

"I still don't. Nothing's changed. And I'm barely of royal blood anyway. I'm not Rowan's. I just... Why are you so determined to put me on the throne? You never answered me."

He sees it, now it's been said - the lad certainly has Maric in him. A bastard, eh?

"I'm not. I don't..." She coughs. "Go. Speak to Levi. You both knew Duncan."

"I..."

"We were _there. _You lost your family at Ostagar. He'll understand better than I can."

They were at the fortress? They must have seen the worst of it, then...

The words are quiet, the lad trying to pretend it doesn't matter. "You know, I'm not sure I did. Lose all my family, I mean." A long, surprised silence, and then the Warden climbs hastily to his feet. It's with nervous steps - dear Maker, this Alistair looks like he's about to trip over a stone - that the fellow approaches him, and it seems to take a while for him to speak. "You, er... You knew Duncan, didn't you?"

He nods, and the memories start to come back.


	99. Dawn

_A continuation of chapter 95, "Teachings"._

* * *

><p><strong>Dawn<strong>

**Leliana**

She hears the usual sounds of Morgana's awakening: rustling and muttered curses, then a loud yawn. She walks across the camp, waiting for a moment before climbing into the tent.

Morgana, used to this state of affairs, shifts on her bedroll, raising her eyes briefly skywards; Leliana joins her, sitting cross-legged on the bedroll, and smiles.

Morgana is sitting with her head nearly to her knees, eyes half-shut and a hand to her mussed hair. She gives a low groan when Leliana gives her a gentle nudge on the shoulder.

She shakes her head. Honestly, her friend wakes like a man. A very grumpy, very Fereldan man. Most definitely not a morning lark.

"I thought you might like this. For your strength, perhaps?"

The mage looks up, wide-eyed. "Alistair hasn't given you stew, has he?"

She laughs, shaking her head, and passes to her the jerky, noting the look of relief on her friend's face.

She takes a deep breath. Now for the real reason she came here. Her voice is quiet as she says, "Why did you ask me about Marjolaine?"

Morgana looks up abruptly, something shifting behind her eyes, becoming guarded. "She was important to you."

Leliana shakes her head, meeting the woman's eyes. "No. You knew what she was to me. Why _now?" _And why did she ask her about the relationship rather than the betrayal?

There is a pause - a rather awkward one. Morgana's eyes flutter shut, and her brow furrows. "I... What I told you. That I'd never felt for someone like that. I wanted to know... I wanted to know what it was like." Opening her eyes, the other woman exhales heavily.

Sympathy rises in her again, and she's nearly taken in by it, until she sees the mage swallow, that that clear blue gaze is directed somewhere over her shoulder.

A half-truth, perhaps, but she will let it rest. There is time. She meets her friend's eye, unwavering, and Morgana looks away first. "I see," she says carefully, then resumes her smile. "I shall see you by the fire?"

Morgana nods, and she climbs out of the tent, wondering...

* * *

><p>They begin the first leg of the journey, and Morgana asks her if she knows any old stories, listening attentively and nodding in all the right places.<p>

The mage's shoulders never lose their tension, however, and she rarely looks at her.

* * *

><p>They make camp, and the sparring begins; she gifts Zevran with a match before the two of them grow bored, sitting and watching the camp instead.<p>

The clash of metal on metal is frequent, as are the dry comments, from the other side of camp, the two Wardens exchanging blows and words.

Alistair laughs. "Come _on_, you expect to stab me with _that _stance?"

"You do realise..." _Clang. _Sweat pours down Morgana's brow as the two cross swords, all in the camp knowing that Alistair will easily outmatch her for strength. "... That that reflects... badly... on _your _teaching?"

Alistair backs off slightly, searching for another angle, and shakes his head with a _faux-_outraged cry of, "_Underhanded! _Not _my _fault you can't hold a sword._" _The mage takes him off guard with a blow that would have sliced his side, if he wasn't wearing armour, and he - just - dodges it. He's grinning, however, as he says, "_Very _nice."

_Thok. "_Yes, well... good teaching and such."

_Clang. _He smiles at his student through the mud on his face. "Hmmm. I guess you're right. I'll..." Scrape. _Clang. _"Ow. Shield arm. I'll have to thank your incredibly..." _Clang. _"... patient, talented instructor, then. Won't I?"

Leliana rolls her eyes and looks to Zevran. "I expect the darkspawn will not respond well to sarcasm."

He lets out a soft, barely-there laugh, and they exchange smiles.

_Clang. Clang. Thud._

They turn to see Morgana on the floor - again - panting, muddy and looking up at Alistair. Standing above the mage, he sighs, then smiles. "Nearly had me there. You're getting better, you know." He offers her a hand.

She returns his smile with a soft, "Thank you", and stretches to take it.

Leliana sees it then: The flush suffusing the woman's cheeks, the way her eyes light up and hold the other Warden's for just a moment too long; the hope in that gentle grasp of his hand.

She sighs, thinking of the blushing, stammering confession of the mage who had never loved before. Oh, _Morgana._


	100. Discoveries

_The 100th chapter! Wow. Since we've reached that milestone - and it's Christmas - I'm going to do something completely new for me: I'm taking requests for POVs for the next few chapters. If there's a character you'd like to see more of, or you're just curious, drop a comment and I'll see what I can do._

_References chapter 29, "Rain". Oh, and double update today._

* * *

><p><strong>Discoveries<strong>

**Morgana**

She sneaks another look at him as he speaks with Levi, his eyes alight, and wonders how she could ever have missed _this _when it was right in front of her for _months_. He gives a laugh at something the merchant has said, a hand running through his hair - another of his nervous habits. She wonders when she started to _notice _things like this.

_Since _she started noticing it, things have been... difficult. Sparring, training, _speaking _with him... This sort of _awareness_ of another person is different from the taint_ - _and she thanks the Maker he showed her how to block _that_ link, otherwise all this would be laid bare for _him _to feel; everything seems to rely far too much on _closeness._

She quickly returns her gaze to the book in her hands, face heating, but she's read the same paragraph five times, and hasn't even been _trying_ to concentrate.

"Have you told him?"

She jumps at the voice from behind her, and then Leliana sits beside her, placing a hand on her shoulder.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says, trying to disguise the shake in her voice.

Leliana sighs. "Morgana, I know you better than that. You care for him, don't you?"

She freezes, tries to hide it, and turns to her, her voice sharper than she intended. "I care for him because he's my friend, and I care for him because he's the _other _Warden in Ferelden. I'm not sure what _you _mean."

Another sigh, and Leliana shakes her head, the Orlesian gently brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Let me... explain, if you will." She pauses, seeming to think for a moment, then says, softly, "Do you remember when we left the Tower?"

She nods cautiously.

"It rained, did it not?"

The coldness, the patter of it on the ground around her, her eyes closing and her palms shown to the sky to treasure it. She puts the memory to the back of her mind, nodding; what is the woman getting at?

"You looked... like you had found something we couldn't understand, something _divine_. And you said that you were free."

Leliana _heard _that? She flushes, and nods. "I... I remember."

The ex-bard's smile grows wider, slightly dreamy. "Sometimes, that is how you look at him. Like you have discovered something wonderful."

"That's not... I'm not... I trust him with my life. He is a good friend, and that is all he'll be."

Leliana looks at her, and there is a pause, then she asks simply, "But is that what you _want?_"

Silently, not quite able to say the words, she shakes her head.


	101. Shield

**Shield**

**Alistair**

The darkspawn are still around them; there are fewer as they begin to make their way up the mountain, but not every attack is avoidable, even with the combined senses of two Wardens.

The screams and the gargles of the things fill his ears, and he almost misses her shout. "_Alistair!"_

He barely knows what he's doing as he sprints through the creatures, only stopping to cut away the occasional clutching, claw-handed arm. He ducks a blow from a hurlock, slits its throat as quickly as he can, and ignores the blood. He keeps running.

She's outnumbered without him, and panic catches his heart at the sight; then he's beside her, and it's _both _of them against the waves of monsters. She grabs him, heals the broken wrist on his shield arm, and he finally brings the board up, trying to hold off a genlock. She takes refuge behind it, panting and managing to gasp her thanks, and the sound reaches him even through the clash of steel and his focus on the darkspawn; she heals her own injuries, then steps away, back into the fight. Every time a blade finds its way through his guard, she glances at him with concerned eyes, waiting until she can take away the pain. Every time she is distracted, every time one of them gets near her, it's him in the way first, gritting his teeth and shouting taunts at the things.

Somewhere along the way, he stops registering his injuries, and the world narrows to her, beside and behind him, the warm flashes of healing every time she can stop and breathe; brief, frightened touches, a shout from her as she throws another spell.

He looks to his side, and there are dark, haunted circles under her eyes, the glow of unconscious magic that usually seems to surround her gone. She raises her blade to a genlock, settling into a perfect _ochs,_ and blocks its hasty, unrefined dagger slashes, but her breath is coming heavily and her hands are shaking on the sword. She steps back from it, and he almost misses her desperate, gasped oath, a half-groan.

She's out of mana, he realises abruptly, and knows it's partly through healing him; he desperately wishes he could thank her, even in the chaos around him. He pulls her away from the darkspawn, ignoring yet another wound as its dagger catches his cheek, and finishes it off brutally and quickly, his sword through its chest.

He looks to her and she nods her thanks, moving away again.

This is how it's always been: her magic, him shielding her when it's needed, between her and everything trying to take her from him. Except... she can look after herself, can almost beat him in a fight. Yet he's still there, trying to protect her.

He wonders when it stopped being practicality and started _mattering._

He wonders _why._


	102. Sword & Sarebaas

_Christmas Eve... Already? Some more fic for you - the festive spirit appears to have overtaken me, so a **triple** update. If you requested a POV, check at the bottom of this chapter. Hope you like them!_

_Yep, I went there - Sten's POV. Most definitely a continuation of the "unusual POV" series._

_This chapter's a gift for **LunaMoth116**, whose request was for our favourite qunari. There will be a second, longer part to this._

* * *

><p><strong>Sword &amp; Sarebaas<strong>

**Sten**

He does not understand.

He runs a hand over the hound's muzzle, still watching the Warden.

She is _sarebaas, _yet she walks free, untamed; using her power frivolously, uncontrolled.

She is also evidently a woman. Yet that is armour she is wearing, and she appears to be polishing a sword. He has seen her in battle, wielding weapons made for others not of her kind, and it baffles him. As does she.

"Women cannot be warriors?" she had asked him.

No. They cannot. They are not born to it, it is not what they are _meant _for. Yet the _sarebaas _were not born to the sword, and he sees her with the other Warden, hears the clashing of steel and their unnecessary provocation of each other. Priestesses were not born to wield daggers, yet the loud Orlesian does this also.

He shakes his head, searching for sense in these thoughts, but finds none, only confused further. The noise of the elf and the other Warden arguing is not helping him think clearly. His hand twitches, searching for the reassuring weight of a sword that is not there, and he exhales.

There is much to tell the Qun.

* * *

><p><em>For once, I'm going to write review response-ish stuff on the fic itself, so we're clear.<em>

_**Christmas/New Year's POV presents:**_

• _Sten - LunaMoth116_

• _Morrigan - TunelessLyric_

• _Bodahn - Snarkoleptic_

• _REB-ART - Great idea; I'm defeated here, I'm afraid - Shale's not in the group yet (not sure whether I'll write her) and Sandal may be downright impossible._

_I'll be off to spend time with family, so these won't all be finished in time for the day itself, but they should all be up by about the second of January. I'm eager to try these out!_


	103. Honesty

_This chapter's rather uncharitable to Zevran, in my opinion - but, well, it **is** Alistair's POV. _

* * *

><p><strong>Honesty<strong>

**Alistair**

His nerves are frayed already after seeing her cast to the point of utter loss of mana, and it's the disrespectful stare, the lascivious comment even while she's pale and exhausted, that makes him grit his teeth and clench his fists.

It, too, is the way the elf is always _there_, laughing with her but with that horrible _glint_ in his eye; she's walking right into it, and laughing with all the innocence of... He doesn't know. A faun, maybe. He knows, somewhere inside him, that she can't be just another notch on the Crow's bedpost, the Antivan treating her like a _toy_. Surely she's better than that?

They're halfway up the mountain when he finally loses his patience with Zevran, and, when they make camp, he asks through gritted teeth for "a word, please?"

Zevran is annoyingly calm, walking with him to a spot a distance away from the others.

He glares at the assassin, arms folded, slowly trying to unclench his fists. Oh, he's seen the way Zevran looks at her - like a tasty _snack. _Something to consume and toss aside.

To his credit, the elf doesn't step back or even flinch, just keeps obstinately staring at him - but, he notes with some satisfaction, the elf has to look _up _to do so.

"She's come out of a _Tower. _She's already been let down by a man once."

The assassin cocks his head, obviously unaware of what happened with Jowan.

"What she needs - " He swallows, the words fading, then drags them back. "What she _needs _is_ honesty, _not... not someone who'll have a tongue down her throat one minute and a dagger in her back the next!"

Zevran cocks his head, raising an eyebrow, and... oh, he's _smirking_.

Inhale. Exhale. Don't punch the smarmy assassin. Instead of the shout he'd expected, his voice comes out as an odd, quiet half-plea, and he realises the truth of the words as he says them. "For Maker's sake, the _stars _are still new to her."

Zevran looks at him in silence, then, slowly, he smiles, finally taking a few steps backwards. "Ah. I see she is already... taken." The elf turns and begins to walk away, and Alistair's heart sinks as he understands what he meant.

"No... Not like _that! _She's my _friend, _I'm just protecting her..."

The elf laughs softly, still walking away. "But how long will you tell yourself that, I wonder?"

Alistair watches him go, throat suddenly dry, and looks back at camp; she's laughing with Leliana, a blush on her cheeks, and it lights her up in the most beautiful way...

Oh Maker, what is he _thinking? _Why doesn't he think this about Leliana, or... or... even _Morrigan_, Andraste forbid? They're both beautiful women, he can't deny it, and he can appreciate that. So why isn't it just _that _- a casual appreciation, one where he can look away afterwards, one that doesn't leave an ache at her absence _and_ presence?

He glares at the snow, as if it can give him an answer, but, unsurprisingly, it isn't forthcoming.


	104. Intent

_Continuation of "Honesty", from Zevran's POV._

* * *

><p><strong>Intent<strong>

**Zevran**

He glances back over his shoulder as he walks away.

The templar is frowning at the snow, arms still crossed, cheeks slightly coloured, and absently pulling at his cloak and shivering slightly.

Zevran shakes his head, a smile crossing his face; he is still not completely sure what he saw in the man, but he recognises it from... a long time ago. His mind clouds at thoughts of Rinna, and he pushes them away.

With the man looming over him, a new fire burning in his eyes, trying to defend the mage, he made way for the... well, if not better, more _passionate _man. It seems the warrior finally has grown a backbone.

Ah, well. It is not difficult to walk away from what was simply an idle fancy.

The two Wardens stumble round each other, aware and yet unaware, like chicks freshly hatched from an egg; it is painfully obvious that the two are as pure as the white snow before him, and their clumsy half-advances are by turns humorous and frustrating. He is finding himself warming to them, the fellow with his easy smile and blunt wit, the mage who appears determined to pretend that she _isn't _a mage... Ah, he does like a feisty one. Even the Orlesian, with something sharp and bright hidden under the façade of the gentle sister. Bard, he'd assume - he has had dealings with her kind before, and they are like peacocks, always flaunting their feathers without realising it.

He shakes his head. These thoughts are dangerous, compromising.

Honestly, he is unsure whether to advise the Wardens on the matter or kill them in their sleep.

Perhaps both?


	105. Someone

_So much for my 2nd January deadline! Took a break for Christmas, and it was a little longer than expected, but I'm back as of now. The new POVs will still happen, don't worry (Next up: Morrigan). _

_Another song chapter - the "angsty bit" inspired, in terms of mood rather than lyrics, by the pretty titular "Someone Like You", courtesy of Adele. If you want a song to rip out your heart, stamp on it a little (in a good way) and leave you feeling better for it, I'd recommend it._

* * *

><p><strong>Someone<strong>

**Morgana**

There is an unusual silence beside her. She's only heard it a few times; one was after Ostagar, grief strangling his words, the other was on the way to Redcliffe, tense and more than a little frightened. She's used to Alistair's voice, making idle observations or fending off Leliana's well-intentioned questions about the Chantry; without it, the quiet _echoes. _She can't help being tense, too, simply _waiting _for darkspawn to jump out at them or... something.

He stares at the road ahead of them, lip permanently twisted as if in silent, unwelcome thought, until she can't stand it any longer and falls behind to ask Leliana, "Something wrong with him?"

Leliana shakes her head. "Nothing I saw."

There's a small, "Er..." from behind them, and she turns swiftly to see Levi looking at them rather sheepishly. "'Im and the elf, they were... arguing about something."

She and Leliana exchange a swift glance of confusion before the ex-bard says, "Arguing? Did you hear what about?"

The merchant looks away and to the horizon, seeming to consider something for a moment, and she hears him take a deep breath before his eyes meet hers again, and he replies, "Not a thing, Warden."

She looks at him sceptically, and there's a long pause before she slowly nods, taking a few steps away. She almost misses Leliana's whisper in her ear. "He's lying."

She replies out of the side of her mouth, not looking at the merchant, "I know. Why?"

"I have no idea. I'm sure it would be easy enough to find out, however. A generous drop of the brandy, perhaps..." An impish smile tugs at the redhead's mouth.

"_No." _She frowns. "I'll find this out the simple way."

The simple way is, of course, from Alistair's own lips, and so she falls back into step with him.

His mind far away, he jumps when she says to him gently, "Last time I looked, my name wasn't Zevran."

He frowns at her. "I... What?"

"You've been a little quiet, even with _me_, and that's not..." She feels a blush beginning, the comment feeling a little too... _proprietary, _putting a mark on a relationship she still doesn't understand. On a _man _she doesn't either. She ends the sentence in an attempt to halt the colour's progress. "I can tell something is wrong. What's the assassin done, finally made you admit it?"

He suddenly tenses, missing a step as he walks and nearly tripping over a stone; he looks away from her, brow furrowed and eyes to the ground, murmuring, "Maybe. I don't know." He looks up, eyes suddenly wider. "How did you - ?"

Concern rising in her, she places a hand on his shoulder, a gesture she's still not used to but enjoys the warmth of. She ignores his surprised stare at her pale fingers resting on the worn plate and the jolt it causes within her, tries briefly to laugh it off. "I meant your unutterable love for him, but - " She leans closer, taking a good look at him. Well, yet _another, _she confesses, somewhere in the back of her mind. " - Something's wrong, I can tell. And, to be honest..." It's her turn to look away now, the comment a little too close to a truth she never intends to tell. "... I miss you."

A moment of silence, and something she can't quite catch flickers across his face. Then it's gone, and he gives her a wide, sheepish grin. "Sorry. I know I've been a little distant - "

"Very. All day." Her voice is sharper than she intended. "There's always a reason with you, you just don't _have _grey moods. Perhaps if you actually _told _me what it _was_, I could... help, somehow? Solve whatever this is?"

He looks to the sky, mouthing something that looks distinctly like _as if, _then back to her. "It's not important. Really. It's not going to stop the Blight, anyway, and that's what we're here for, right?"

The silence becomes just a little too long between them, and she finds herself simply staring into his eyes, wishing for something she knows she won't, _can't,_ have. She has to fight herself not to reach out and touch him again.

She realises abruptly that if she had never left the Tower, she would never have met him. If he had never left the Chantry...

The Wardens saved them both, somehow; made them more than the labels they'd been given, and instead into comrades, equals. Friends.

Then she remembers the way he first spoke to Morrigan, his reaction at discovering she was a mage, _her _reaction at finding out he was Chantry-raised...

She stopped seeing a templar when she looked at him a long time ago, but _this _(and she's afraid of even thinking the word _love_, just in case it's true, because she's only ever read about it and it _hurts _people, it always does) tears away all of it, leaves only labels and old wounds.

Frightened, prejudiced man. Lovesick, stupid mage. The Chantry wins once again.

Even knowing that, she can't help but watch him, take in the small details of his face that she _shouldn't_ notice. Frozen in time, she allows herself briefly to wish, and to imagine.

Then she looks away, nodding once. "I suppose. Just... speak to me, if you need to. I'm here."

A long pause next to her, and she wonders if he, too, is thinking of a conversation that seems a distant memory, her awkward words attempting to comfort him after Ostagar, even then trying to understand. She is certain of it when he replies, quietly, "I know."


	106. Worn Thin

_A chapter with a bow on top, late as it is. To TunelessLyric, and to Suilven also - hope I've done Morrigan justice here._

_P.S:With the way things are going, I can promise a _Dreams & Books_ update in the next couple of days._

* * *

><p><strong>Worn Thin<strong>

**Morrigan**

* * *

><p><em>What she finds there makes her stop, nearly drop the book. As well more studies of flowers and animals, there are pictures of their little group, every feature, every frown line or upward turn of the mouth captured.<em>

_~Morgana, Chapter 54, "Grimoire"_

* * *

><p>She is tired, her eyes aching, but the drawing begins to come to life under her hands, the tiresome scratching of her own quill the only sound.<p>

Their leader sits, staring at the fire, in a way that has become unfamiliar as the months have passed, a relic from their first days on this road. The firelight glints in the blue, throws shadows onto the set jaw with an ignored trickle of blood. A darkspawn ambush earlier today that caught them weak, tired from the journey; her guard was let down for but a moment...

The quiet noises of pots being shifted, and the bard begins to serve what Orlesians call food - the others seem to appreciate it, but she doubts she will ever understand its appeal. The food is like the people - fussy, presented prettily, but ultimately useless.

The Warden looks up with heavy eyes; those eyes fix on her unblinkingly for a moment, almost as if she knows what she is doing...

No. 'Twould be impossible.

Morrigan looks down at the grimoire once again, closing her eyes for a moment, and then continues to draw.

* * *

><p>Soldier's Peak lies ahead of them, snow-heavy and desolate.<p>

She feels the magic as soon as they approach the old fortress, sees the Wardens tense. They can obviously feel what she can. Ah; it is no surprise. A mage and a templar, after all...

The walk up the last slope to the Peak is slow, and the air is thick around them, in a way she has felt few times before - if she were anywhere else, she would think it were her mother's magic, and she feels grit her teeth, waiting.

The merchant is oblivious, walking on as calmly as ever, but begins to look around at them, at last noticing their reactions.

She slowly relaxes herself, trying to ignore the gaping tears in the barrier. The Veil, as the Chantry labels it, in yet another attempt to make sense of things far beyond their ignorant ken; there is power, old power, in names, and they attempt to own what was never theirs.

She sighs, but the breath stops as she sees Morgana trying to hide the hand she has pressed to her forehead. She remembers the way she was struck as they entered the Brecilian Forest ruins, and realises that there must have always been templars to maintain the Veil in the Tower, nothing from the Beyond ever allowed to seep through.

The templar has, for once, dropped out of step with their Warden, showing similar signs of fatigue or perhaps distress - she cannot tell - and the opportunity is irresistible. Walking next to her fellow mage, she looks to her and says softly, "It will pass. It becomes easier as we progress through this place."

Morgana looks at her, giving her a small, swift nod. "I see." She frowns. "But it... feels like it's getting worse. I don't know..."

Morrigan looks at her, wondering whether she should try to... Comfort her? Reassure her with pleasing lies? There is a moment of silence, then she says bluntly, "We are travelling with a templar." She doesn't miss the small twist of the woman's lip at the word. "You are a Harrowed mage. If we are not safe in such company, when are we?"

The woman nods, biting her lip, and looks ahead of them.


	107. The Dead

**The Dead**

**Alistair**

There they are, stumbling towards them on bone feet. Wardens, some of them.

He remembers the others at Ostagar, wonders if he knew the descendants of these... corpses.

He draws his sword and waits, taking heavy breaths, weighing the sword in his hand. His hand shakes slightly, and he catches the worried look Morgana shoots him.

He'll be fine, he tells himself. They are long dead; he has steel in his hand and friends by his side.

He hears the first inhuman, rattling gargle, and then he's forward, a spring in him finally uncoiling, and _free._ His world merges into the _things _around him and his heart pounding in his ears. The sickening _crunch _of steel on bone; a shout from Morgana, and he's stepping back from a blast of flame, feels the Veil forcefully rip open in a way that's almost physically painful for him. Her magic? No, he realises - this is blacker, sharper. He turns.

Skeletal mages? Oh, this day just gets better and better.

He dodges crackling lightning, trying to rush the dead mage, but a dagger from a Warden skeleton catches him at the last moment, missing his chest but leaving a painful gash across his knuckles. He has to fight not to drop his sword, and backs away, looking for his attacker, when there's a loud sound of breaking bone, its ribcage breaking into pieces; Leliana, still standing behind it, watches it fall for a moment, then looks to him with the sweetest, most innocent smile he's ever seen and is gone.

He barely feels the hand on his arm in the haze of it all, but there Morgana is, pulling him back from the battle. "What - ?" he gasps, uncomprehending.

"Quickly," she says. "The emissaries." He sees the stone set behind her eyes, and finally understands; she steps back from him, ducks the greatsword of another skeleton. Concentration is difficult here, in the middle of the creatures, but he manages it somehow and _pulls _on the tear in the Veil, releasing the smite with a gasped breath.

The undead are knocked from their feet, as are Leliana and Zevran, but he feels a weight on his shoulder and opens his eyes to see Morgana holding tightly to him, an arm thrown round his shoulder, sword still raised at their oncoming foes; for a moment, he almost laughs at her shock - she looks into his eyes, both of them still breathing heavily, and something _burns _behind the blue of her irises. Then she pushes herself hastily away, briefly squeezing his hand, ignoring his surprise as she does so.

The noise of an undead soldier behind him, and the spell is broken, the two of them taking advantage of the moment to wade back into the fray, cleaving the drained mage corpses in half.

He spots Morrigan and Leliana killing some of the recovered skeletons too, exchanging the odd glance of acknowledgement...

When it's over, he's left standing in the bloody snow, struggling for breath, and it finally sinks in, flooding his chest with ice.

He walks slowly to one of the corpses, gently plucking the distinctive griffon shield from the bones, looking at it silently. His hands are shaking, he notices somewhere at the back of his mind, but it barely registers.

Some of them were like him, once - Wardens. Maker, what _happened _to tear the Veil so badly, cause these kind of... abominations? The Grey Warden fortresses are some of the safest places on Thedas; surely they can't have been infiltrated by maleficarum?

Duncan's words echo in his ears, and he has to take in a shuddering breath, closing his eyes. _We do what we must._ _Darkspawn are a far greater threat than blood mages._

Fresh out of the Chantry, still relishing his freedom, he'd stopped speculatively eyeing the inn's ale and stared at the older man disbelievingly, sputtering old lines from his training, while his mentor had simply raised his eyebrows and filled him in on some of the... less savoury aspects of Warden history.

They're not above recruiting blood mages, he knows, and the thought slithers into his brain, unwelcome - pehaps his adopted family aren't as noble as he believed. _An inside job? One of the Wardens' own?_

No. This is just... _disrespectful, _not even allowing them a true rest. No-one would...

His thoughts stray back to Ostagar, to the many killed, and he shivers.

He sees her step up behind him in the shield's reflection, hears the _crunch _of her footsteps, and she looks at him in concern. "Alistair?"

His eyes don't stray from the shield, the silence echoing, and he sees a flash of fear cross her eyes. "I know it was... unpleasant, seeing your own like that, but... we need to get moving," she tries.

His mouth is too dry to speak, words dying in his throat, and he's unable to tear his eyes away from the emblem; he opens his mouth, then closes it again. Her eyes are scared now, and he knows she's remembering the period after Ostagar, of silences and tense black air.

She exhales, but it shakes; he almost doesn't catch the murmur from her lips, is sure he must have heard wrongly when he does, but it makes him suddenly turn, nodding resolutely and exchanging his old shield for the Warden's.

He follows her as they begin the walk to the Keep's entrance, the merchant rambling terrified monologues, her quiet words still in his head.

_Please... Come back to me._


	108. Unsavoury

**Unsavoury**

**Leliana**

Morrigan is walking with tense shoulders, lips a harsh, straight slash of tension... or disapproval.

At first, she thinks it must be the thin Veil, then she notices where the other traveller's gaze is directed: in a glaring, searing line, at the Wardens in front of them.

"Do you see something unsavoury?" she asks, sarcasm only lightly touching the sentence.

A pause, and Morrigan looks to her, mouth arranged almost in a sneer. "Just as I began to think the mage rational... What does she _see _in him, I wonder?"

Ah.

Leliana looks ahead of them, where something thick and sad seems to hang between the two Wardens, the pair unusually silent; she remembers Alistair's departure earlier, and frowns.

Then she smiles, and says to Morrigan, "Many things, I think. Love is blind, even to the imperfections you see."

"Yes," the mage says slowly and _faux-_ponderously. "Well, those imperfections are hardly well-hidden." A small _hmph _leaves the witch's mouth. "If you say so. I still find it frankly baffling."

Leliana considers for a moment the blunt woman who had rarely left the Wilds, who spoke of her mother's conquests but never of her own loves, and says lowly, "Of course you do."


	109. Honour

_Thanks, EvilEm - I admire your bravery for wading through this in two sittings, and it's good to see you're enjoying it. Painful? Painful is the name of the game... *fiendish grin*_

_Anyway, double update tonight, everyone. Hope you like._

* * *

><p><strong>Honour<strong>

**Levi**

His "gran" is _not _what he expected.

Old documents, a corpse, he'd thought. A _walking _corpse? She barely looks like a woman any more, patches of rot staining her face,and _her eyes..._

They give him the shivers, they do. Blank and staring and -

He looks away, at the Warden, and her eyes meet his. Asking for permission, he knows. He gives her a little nod, she gives it back, and then the room looks like something from the Black City.

The relative he thought he knew falls to the floor, and with it any hope of reclaiming the Dryden honour. The Orlesian girl does her best, giving him pretty words, but they're useless.

He looks around, sees what she and her pet mage have done, and sighs.

The Dryden honour doesn't _exist._


	110. Someone  Else's Touch

_This chapter title's a quote from The xx's "Infinity". I can't recommend that song enough - it's defined the mood of this whole chapter. Actually, their album, also called The xx, is quickly becoming a soundtrack for these two._

_Also, a recent discovery of mine: Desire demons are bloody hard work to write in a T-rated story._

* * *

><p><strong>Someone Else's Touch<strong>

**Alistair**

The silence hangs between them, thick and grey, and he can barely look at her. He's humiliated himself, as usual, lost control and scared her off.

His blood boils and bile rises in his throat when they come across the evidence of Avernus'... _experiments._ Wardens, tortured and bled dry, for one small, stupid vial.

He reads the notes over her shoulder, about how this _poison _extends a Warden's life expectancy, and sees, _feels_, her suck in a breath in front of him. She picks up the vial, considers it, and he tenses, because she _wouldn't, _not after reading of that bastard's "research"_... _

She exhales, places it gently back down upon the desk, and he has to move as she walks calmly away. She looks back at it once, then leaves the room.

Suddenly something rises in him that he can't explain, an ache that's warm and sharp, and he wants to run after her, thank her for... something.

He's not quite sure what.

* * *

><p>They silently agree, when they speak to Avernus - they exchange telling glances, and he knows that she doesn't trust the maleficar either. She keeps her mouth shut, however, unlike <em>him.<em>

* * *

><p><em>Demons.<em>

Andraste's _sword, _this is just...

It doesn't go well.

Rage, desire... they're toying with his emotions, and he's trying to fight them both in the outside world and in his own _head._

Old memories resurface, of being sent away, an inconvenience, of the pain. An amulet, smashed against a wall.

How could Eamon _do _this to him?

He steps back from the flames that narrowly miss him, returning to the real world; shaking his head, he lets out a cry of frustration, readies his sword, and meets the flaming eyes of the thing.

It falls, and he lets out a rough, barely-reasoned yell of triumph, wondering what's _happening _to him, before he feels the hands snake gently into his head, a soothing voice whispering nearby.

Half-heard trysts, and the other men's stories; the yellowing books in the dark corners of the library he'd never looked quickly enough away from; the admiring glances given to the girls at the stalls, that he wouldn't dare admit; even the other Wardens' none-too-gentle teasing...

He remembers, and he _wants, _a fire kindled to its full, desperate heat inside him.

It's then that he recognises the voice in his ear, the hand tracing a path along his jaw, and he shuts his eyes, has to struggle not to mouth her name.

Oh, he _knows_ this touch. Months of tentative attempts at comfort, of _healing, _have ensured that.

He swallows thickly as slender fingers reach his shoulder, and he feels her lips at his hairline, the three soft words whispered against his skin. His name.

_No._

His eyes snap open, and he steps away, because he knows that this would _never_ happen. He remembers every "templar", her confession that she was _scared _of him - _scared, _of all things - and the awkward silence that hangs between them now...

_Now?_

Real life rushes in abruptly, and he curses himself for letting his concentration slip like that. What was he _thinking?_

Any other thoughts are disposed of by the feeling of those familiar fingers, ungloved, on his forehead, her magic touching him again, and he wakes with a shuddering breath.

He's greeted by frightened blue eyes, her hand tracing down to his cheek before being abruptly removed; he looks around to see the others staring at them. Her voice is quiet as she says, "A rage demon caught you. Badly. It was... closer than I would have liked." She looks up from where she's kneeling beside him, and Leliana passes her a lyrium potion; she downs it in one, unable to meet his eye, and he suddenly realises that it must have been bad, to _drain _her like that...

"I'm guessing I'm not a pretty sight right now," he jokes weakly.

She cocks her head and considers him, a half-smile of approval appearing on her lips. "Not bad, really."

He abruptly remembers the demon visions in his head, her breath at his neck, and has to look away from her, his face heating.

"Alistair?" she asks, voice concerned. "Something wrong?"

He shakes his head quickly, sits up. The action provokes a groan of pain from him; Morgana's work is usually flawless, so he dreads to think what couldn't be healed painlessly. He sees her wince and suck in a breath, hand pressed to her side, and frowns; then the Chantry's training kicks in, and, understanding, he says sharply, "Stop that. " The healer's sympathetic pain, the best diagnostic tool around - she's hurting _for _him, and suddenly he can't bear the thought. "You've done your best," he adds, more softly.

She looks at him in wide-eyed surprise, and he feels the hum of the mana field contract, disappear. Spotting it on the ground beside him, he passes her the discarded glove - one of the pair he bought her in Lothering, he notices in surprise - and presses it gently into her hand; she instinctively raises her palm and takes it.

Their eyes meet, and in that moment, her skin _scorches_ him - he takes his hand quickly away, ashamed of his thoughts, and doesn't miss the surprised hurt that flickers through her eyes. Immediately, he's even _more _ashamed of himself.

He stands cautiously, having to lean against the Keep's wall, and she rises as well, announces that they should get moving. He can't look at her, remembering the way his thoughts were crawled through, what was chosen as his ideal bait...

Why _her, _anyway?

What does that suggest, that he _wants_ her? His fellow Warden, the quiet, Chantry-hating mage? The book-lover with the careful fingers and thoughtful eyes. Possibly the most frightening glarer in the world. A woman of awkward social graces and sudden silences. The one who stood by him, is still standing by him.

He remembers his name on her lips, the way it sounded like music to him, did only seconds ago...

No.

_No._

He looks ahead of them, gathers his sword and shield, and tries desperately to shake the thoughts out of his head, following the others, but he knows his eyes are haunted.


	111. I Think I Want

_Continuation of the last chapter._

* * *

><p><strong>I Think I Want<strong>

**Morgana**

Alistair seems even more distracted than before; the demons have taken a toll on them all - this is the only time she's _ever _been glad of her apprenticeship, as it allowed her to resist their grasp - but he looks drawn even compared to the rest of them, and is hanging back.

She contemplates saying something to him, but she remembers him abruptly taking back his hand, and the hurt burns once again in the pit of her stomach.

_Why?_ She still doesn't understand what she's done wrong. He's never protested to her touch before.

Their exit from the Peak is one of silence and no eye contact, the two of them avoiding each other and Levi unusually quiet; his history and his illusions have been lost, it seems, and it can't be easy for him, so she's surprised when he elects to stay there and set up a stall.

"If you're certain..." she says hesitantly.

He nods, explaining that is family's heritage is still here, after all, and explains his plan to move the rest of his family here.

She looks at him for a moment in silence, then gives a small nod. "I see. I think we should make sure our work here is done first."

After some deliberation, they make camp outside the Keep, next to Levi's stall, to keep watch for one last night; the silence between her and Alistair continues, Leliana watching them both with a raised eyebrow and murmuring something to Zevran; the assassin nods, and she thinks she sees him roll his eyes.

It's her turn to dish out an attempt at food, which, this time, is rabbit - a lucky find. She calls everyone to the pot, and, as she passes Alistair his, says quietly, "I think we need to talk."

He looks at her with a worried expression and says quickly, "It doesn't matter. I'm just... shaken, I guess." He gives a nervous half-laugh, looking at the dish and not her.

"Hmm," she replies sceptically, handing Morrigan a bowl and turning back to him. "You've never reacted like this before." She pauses, ladling herself a portion, and then meets his eye, bowl in her hand and a brow raised. He forgets that she has been Harrowed, grew up with the constant threat of demon possession looming over her, and has seen the aftermath of encounters like these in the past - she's surprised at how badly they affected him, that he allowed himself to become so distracted. "What did you see?" she asks, bluntly.

He seems taken aback at how straightforward the question is, eyes flickering to hers for a moment in surprise. "I saw..." He stops, looking down at the rabbit but making no move to eat it. "I don't know. Something that I..." He swallows. "That I think I want." He finally meets her eye, briefly; she sees just a glimpse of something almost, but not quite, unfamiliar in his expression, then he's staring at his boots again. "Look, just... leave it. It's not a big deal, and... Later."

She watches him, her expression worried.

He quietly exhales, breath misting in the air up here, eyes turning to the fire for a half-second. "Sorry. It was worse than expected, Soldier's Peak, and it just caught me."

She nods. "Sometimes I count myself lucky I didn't know the Wardens. It means I don't have to mourn them the way you do." She tentatively places her bowl aside, experimentally putting a hand on his shoulder and waiting for him to recoil as he did; he looks down at her hand, swallowing, then back to her, but allows it.

"I think I understand," he replies softly, his mind clearly elsewhere, then looks at her properly. "If it's not too personal... what did you see?"

She retakes her hand and picks up her dish. "I... I learned to block them out. In the Tower," she says, starting to eat her own portion of rabbit.

"Oh. Right. I'll just..." He gestures half-heartedly to his tent and starts to walk back to it- they're all eating in them, in this weather.

She watches him go, face heating in the cold weather.

She lied, of course, but she isn't about to tell _him_ what she saw in the brief, blissful moments before she managed to fight the demon's whispers - what's currently walking away from her.


	112. Insomnia

_375 reviews! Wow, that's... astonishing. Thank you, everybody, for taking the time to give a few words. They really are appreciated._

_Thanks, REB-ART! Glad you're liking the (very) slowmance._

_OK, this is... fluff, for me. There's no other word for it. Probably ridiculously romance-ish, but complicated character worries will perhaps - likely - resume soon. _

* * *

><p><strong>Insomnia<strong>

**Alistair**

Usually, once the nightmares are over, he sleeps like a log, but tonight he finds himself staring at the ceiling of his tent, gritting his teeth. The false words of affection still ringing in his ears, he claps his hands to them almost in order to drown them out. It doesn't help, of course - the lies are all inside his head.

He runs a hand down his face with a sigh, but suddenly his head is _full _of her, in a way that makes him dizzy, and they're the _real _memories.

The way she smiles every time it rains.

Every shy touch on his arm, his hands; every time her face twists in concern at seeing him injured, and her murmured words and little assurances as she heals him. The cracked, slightly heartbreaking apologies every time he hisses in pain. He realizes abruptly that, with the way she heals, she's probably feeling it most of the time as well.

Slender hands, pale lips, the brief little smiles she never seems to give anyone else.

The cry that ripped itself from his chest when he nearly lost her, the others' looks of shock, running blindly towards the water...

His fists have clenched, he realizes.

The morning after, when he found her by the river, the quiet, tentative song winding its way through the air that she hadn't wanted anyone to hear. He hasn't heard her sing since, but it was... lovely.

The way she looks at him, half-cheekily and half-hopefully, when he manages to best her in sparring _again, _eyes sparkling_; _the way they instinctively reach for each other in battle.

The time they lay and watched the stars together in the silence and the stillness; the time he woke up next to her in the Brecilian Forest. He'd stayed with her to protect her, he remembers, and then... Even now, the memory brings the trace of a blush. The way she'd looked with the day's first light on her face and all her defences down; the fluttering of her eyelids and the smile on her lips in sleep. Maker, he'd wanted to see her _dreams_. The way she was close enough to hear her _breathing, _just a hand's length away_.._.

His words from soon after that day return to him. He'd called her... beautiful, he remembers. He remembers her wide eyes, the way she'd looked at the ground.

Maybe, even then, he'd...

He swallows. He misses her presence beside him, he realizes, her warmth and her occasional questions; the crackling of pages as they keep watch together and she buries her head in a book, a small frown line appearing between her brows; her laugh, small and a little rough, but there.

He sucks in a tight breath, and he _knows, _knows exactly what the warmth blooming in him _is._ He can't find the strength to deny it anymore.

_Oh, Alistair, you **idiot.**_

What in Andraste's name is he supposed to _do?_ Oh, he doesn't know what she'll think, but the Chantry training...

What if she thinks he's still a templar?

"_I trust you, remember?" _Her words, the way she'd stood and _let _him smite her. His head is a little clearer than it was, and maybe, just maybe, he can dare to believe that there's hope there.

What about his... inexperience?

"_I understand - it needed to be the right person..." _The way she'd stuttered her way through a similar confirmation, how _familiar _her words had sounded... No, neither of them have ever done _that._

If she doesn't feel the same way?

She's never shown any interest that he's seen...

He has no idea. Put a brave face on it, and pretend he wants to be friends? The thought makes his chest ache uncomfortably, his breathing a little more difficult.

He looks to his side to see his hand stretched across his bedroll, searching for something... some... _one_... that's disappointingly absent.


	113. Insomnia, II

_What can I say? I love mirror chapters._

* * *

><p><strong>Insomnia, II<strong>

**Morgana**

She wakes from a nightmare, and suddenly, it's too claustrophobic in her tent; she wants to see the _stars_, feel the reassuring weight of her sword in her hand, but it's too cold to go outside.

It's been so long since she's stopped and simply looked up, breathed it all in; she twists her lip at the thought that she might be beginning to take freedom, all this, for granted.

Leliana's cooking and tinkling laugh.

Zevran's lewd humour (yes, she admits that she enjoys it - she has no idea how to respond, ends up blushing and mumbling at her feet, but the elf can always make her laugh).

The scent of woodsmoke, steel and sometimes blood. Terrible jokes, the clank of another set of splintmail beside her. Gentle, callused hands correcting her posture, helping her up, holding hers.

She screws her eyes shut with a sigh, half-opening them to squint at the ceiling of her tent; she can't help looking to her side, as if she can see through the canvas. Yes, she knows _exactly _where he's pitched his tent. She wonders...

The taint connects them with an unbreakable bond, and it would be so easy just to reach out and _find _his feelings.

No. She remembers what he said about the lack of privacy given by the ability, about the frustration it caused...

It's wrong. Unwelcome.

It's too tempting, and he could always do the same if he wanted to.

She breathes out, shuts her eyes, and lets the carefully built wall in her mind collapse, simply _listens _to the humming in her blood.

Her eyes snap open at what she finds - sadness and a little panic, as well as...

Guilt? Why would he feel _guilty? _She wonders whether it has something to do with his odd silences and his refusal to look her in the eye. Whatever's caused it, it makes her anxious, too; she'd like nothing more than to comfort him, apologize for intruding, but then she'd have to _explain..._

There's something else there, too, underneath it all. It's warm, nearly a physical ache, and she can't name it. It's almost _familiar. _She focuses on it, ignores the other emotions.

Warm, pleasantly so, and _reaching _somehow...

She frowns and shifts on her bedroll, rolling onto her side and wondering what could have caused... whatever-it-is. She finds herself once again looking to where she knows he'll be, not bothering to resurrect the barrier between their emotions. The warmth is soothing, almost an embrace, and she finds her eyes fluttering closed, her breaths steadier. It gives her sleep sometime before the dawn.


	114. Legacy

**Legacy**

**Levi**

He waves goodbye to the Wardens the next morning; they leave him with a legacy more blood-soaked than he'd ever thought possible, and plenty of unpleasant memories.

He's a Dryden, though. He'll rebuild. It's what they _do._


	115. Cloak

**Cloak**

**Morgana**

She needs to say something, she thinks. The odd silence since the demons is almost painful, and she needs the anchor of his speech...

She's jerked out of her trance by the sound of a small _flump. _A sudden weight lands on her shoulders, and a familiar masculine voice close to her ear murmurs, "You're shivering."

Shoulders abruptly tensing, she looks around to see his face close to hers, one hand still on the cloak and brows creased in concern. She swallows nervously - she can feel his breath on her neck, knows it's as rough as her own. She sees something in his face soften, eyes flickering to her lips; then he steps away with a hasty apology. "I'm... I'm sorry, you were just..."

She shakes her head, gathering the cloak closer to her and giving him a small smile. A chance to patch this up, perhaps. "Thank you."

He smiles back, shaky as it is. "I think we need to buy you one of those." A pause. "Still worried about Orzammar?"

Her fists clench instinctively at the thought of all the lyrium down in the Deep Roads, and she nods.

A sigh, and he looks at her properly. "I know I've said it, but I should apologize for the past couple of days. Really, I should, and I shouldn't have..."

She lays a finger to his lips, as Leliana has done to her in the past, abruptly hushing him. "Please, stop _apologizing._" Her other words die in her throat as she realizes that he's staring at her, and she curses her Tower upbringing once again. She must have crossed some kind of line, she knows, and takes it quickly away, cheeks heating.

His words are soft, eyes meeting hers, and she is surprised to see a half-smile on his face. "Will do."

They walk on in silence for a while, until she feels him gently take her arm. She slows down, hears a distinctly unsubtle cough from behind them (Leliana), and ignores it. He looks at her, eyes large and almost _scared, _and she's confused; he clears his throat and says quietly, "Look... I... I think I..."

She looks at him, her own eyes wide as his, and asks haltingly, "Alistair?"

He swallows, still frozen in place, looking at her. "It's..." He stops, glances down, and the moment's lost. He quickly lets go of her arm, starts walking at their usual pace, and says, false-briskly, "It's not important. Doesn't matter at all." He lets out a long breath, eyes briefly closing and a hand running through his hair, before he looks at her. "Poultice supplies. I think we're running low."

When she checks later that night in camp, however, they seem to be well-stocked, and she frowns, fastening the pack; sitting back, she pulls the cloak closer, looking into the fire and trying to pretend the chill of the mountain isn't there. Something catches her eye, and brows crinkling, she briefly brings her head to the cloak for a closer look. Looking back up again, she recognises what had eluded her.

His name, stitched neatly in the lining. She grins.


	116. Advice

**Advice**

**Leliana**

She hums gently as she stirs the pot; the tune's an old ballad she picked up in Starkhaven, on the way to Ferelden.

_And o'er hill and far away_

_Their minds wander'd, their feet would stray..._

She stifles a laugh, shaking her head. Strangely appropriate, with their circumstances - she thanks the Maker she is used to blisters.

A footstep and a cleared throat behind her; she turns to see Alistair standing, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "Can we... er..."

"Pardon?" she asks, puzzled.

"Can I talk to you a moment?"

She smiles, suspecting she knows what this is about, and nods. "Certainly." She walks over to Zevran, lays a hand on his shoulder. "Watch the pot, if you would be so kind."

He grins widely. "When there are other wonderful things to lay my eyes upon?" He lets his gaze drift and focus on her, then sighs dramatically. "It seems I must."

"Thank you, Zev," she says, then follows Alistair out of camp, feigning ignorance.

She frowns. "Is there something important - ?"

He looks at her sheepishly. "Not - Well, yes, sort of. Look, if you thought you might... care for someone. Very much. Thought they were beautiful, intelligent, nice to have in your life, that sort of thing, but - "

She flutters her eyelashes, smirking. "Oh, ser knight. I didn't know you cared."

His eyes widen slightly, and he takes a hasty step back. "Maker, no!" he exclaims, then, looking even more horrified, adds, "Not that you're ugly, don't get me wrong, but... No. Sorry."

She relents, giving him a smile. "I... suspected. I have for a while now. This would be Morgana, if I am correct."

Shock crosses his face. "Is it that obvious?"

She looks at him thoughtfully. "To those who know the signs."

He sighs. "Right, so... you know. But does she...?" He makes a vague, arm-waving gesture, letting the silence speak for itself.

"Feel the same?" Leliana finishes, and he nods.

Oh, how easy it would be...

_She cares for you greatly and embarrassingly obviously. It is astonishing you haven't noticed._

Morgana would be humiliated. She had wanted to keep her feelings a secret, had been _scared _of what he might think...

By Andraste, a greater mess there never was.

A pause, and she replies, "I cannot say I know. We talk about... men..." He raises his eyebrows, trying to hide it. "... Very little. Mostly, it is Orlais or Blight things."

He looks at her warily. "'Blight stuff'?"

She shakes her head, then looks straight - and pointedly - at him. "Whether I have, indeed, added to the quota of crazy..." She sighs as he pales, then begins, "She has never shown any aversion toward you. She has been... friendly, no?"

"I suppose..."

"She trusts you..."

"She says she does..." He looks at the ground, trying to hide the smile that begins to bloom on his face at the thought.

"And you _are_, after all, a handsome man..."

A cough, and, after colouring slightly and pretending to scratch his knuckles with a muttered "Can't say I've noticed...", he finally looks at her, expression hopeful. "Really?"

She nods. "If _I_ have seen it, it is almost certain that she has."

"You - ?" He stops, shakes his head. "Never mind."

"Most importantly..." She inhales. "You protect her, and you will fight for her as well as with her. She is lucky." Her lips twitch, and she looks away - it is sweet, it is true, and it is a little close to the emptiness she sometimes feels in her heart. She can sigh "if only"s until the end of time, however, and it's unimportant. "Can you not see?"

He frowns. Evidently not, then.

"She heals you because she understands this. She is trying to do the same for you. If nothing else, you are certainly a friend to her."

"A friend..." His voice trails off dismally, and she raises a palm to her face at the man's refusal to find self-confidence.

"Tell her," she says eventually, the two simple words hanging in the air. "It is your only chance to know. Tell her."

He stares at her, swallowing, then over at the fire; their mage sits there, halfway through _The Art Of The Spirit_, Wynne leaning over her shoulder and saying something to her; it makes her smile.

"She is... good. Kind." She looks away, and admits, "Beautiful, in her way." She looks him in the eye. "She is also naïve, and frightened. If you want to know her feelings, it must be _you_ who moves."

He watches the other Warden for a moment in silence, seeming to think, and then nods. "I... just have to find the right time."


	117. Lessons

_Sorry about the update gap (and lack of PMs). Life, the universe and technical difficulties decided to get in the way, but it looks like things have been getting it the way, but it looks like things have improved._

_Anyway, more story... _

_Basing this on wondering about some of Leliana's briefly mentioned in-game "wooing tips", as well as many disastrous experiences of self-teaching guitar and piano (and even very __**minor**, equally disastrous _ experience with a lute)_._

* * *

><p><strong>Lessons<strong>

**Morgana**

_The bottom of Soldier's Mount_

_Twang. _A small, light _thwack. _"Ow!"

She frowns, more than a little concerned, and heads toward the noise.

An Orlesian-accented, _very _disapproving voice filters through the camp from the direction of Leliana's tent. "_Non! _You put your hand here - see, it is all in the wrist - _" _A laugh. "Dear, dear..."

"No, Lel, I don't think I'll _ever _see. Surely there's a better way..."

She steps round the neat canvas construction to be greeted by the sight of a very embarrassed Grey Warden staring despairingly at a lute, Leliana tutting next to him before saying, "Mastery of an instrument is very charming, Alistair. It requires more finesse than swinging a sword, and certainly appeals far more..."

Morgana silently disagrees; actually, the "sword swinging" is _very _appealing, but she files the thought away for another day.

"I _do not_ 'swing a sword'! Years of training and discipline were _not_ for - " He looks up and emits a very quiet "Oh", finally noticing her.

She thinks his ears are red, and the sight nearly makes her laugh - she decides that it would be unwise with him cringing visibly in front of her; instead, she says, "Never had you down as a musician."

"Ah - I..." He gestures gracelessly to his companion. "Blame Leliana. She roped me into this."

The former bard darts a sly look at her and stands with a smile, gesturing to the now-empty seat. "He wished to learn. And I am sure you would be a _far _better teacher than me."

No. She isn't going to...

Unfortunately, the slightly smug woman is already walking back to the main fire, still smiling, and she's left watching her fellow Warden warily.

He looks up at her with a sheepish grin, and waves a hand back in Leliana's direction. "Is there any bread...?"

A poor excuse. She sits next to him with a sigh. "If you wish to learn, I'll teach you. Perhaps as repayment for the 'sword swinging' lessons - ?"

He grins at her, then says, seeming to warm to the idea a little more, "I suppose I could try."

She nods. "Well, let's see what you have so far..."

She winces at the discordant ring of strings, and actually has to _ask_ him what he's trying to play, a fact which embarrasses them both beyond belief.

"Ah," she says. "Here." Another, still discordant, and she exhales. "No, _here_."

"I did _say_ I was useless..." he begins, swiftly silenced as she walks round him, her hands settling over his own at different points on the strings, showing him the precise _right _places - the angle is awkward, but it'll suffice. "The... the third, there." She shifts closer, leaning over his shoulder, and finds herself, once again, very aware of him; the warmth of his presence is both tense and soothing, somehow, and she... enjoys it.

Another ringing _twang, _this time somewhere approximating tuneful. She smiles and looks at him, their eyes meeting. "Aha. You show promise already."

He gives her a wide grin, raising an eyebrow. "You're a _terrible _liar."

They both seem to realize each other's proximity at the same time, the smile fading from his face, and he seems far away...

She swallows, remembering the offers of the desire demon, but this is _him; _her eyes flicker to his mouth, andshe can't help wondering how much closer she would need to be, to simply lean down and find his lips with her own...

She coughs, looking away, the both of them very red, and stands. "Well. It looks like you could... make progress. If you wanted to."

He looks at the ground, muttering something that sounds like, "I am _never_ listening to that woman again. Ever." He removes the lute, leaning it against a tree, and stands, brushing himself off. "I should probably stick to swords. A lot less danger of death."

As they walk back to the fire together, she shakes her head, holding back a laugh. "You'll learn. If only you could have heard my first version of 'Little Langdon's Lady'..."

He isn't so subtle, letting out a small snort. "I heard it a few times down in Redcliffe. It can't have been worse than the stable boys'."

"You would be surprised," she says warningly. "In the Tower, there was another version. With..." A pause. "Fireballs," she finishes, quietly and reluctantly. "And winged sheep."

A small, slightly disbelieving silence, then, "Now _this _I _have _to hear..."


	118. Sparring

**Sparring**

**Leliana**

Even after her time in the Chantry, the blades still sit easily in her hands, their weight reassuring.

She spars with her shadow, the moves familiar but somehow made anew by her circumstances: in a camp, travelling to Orzammar, with companions, not in...

Orlais. The memories flow back to her unbidden, cold water seeming to trickle down her spine.

For all that she thinks herself Fereldan, she misses the lights of Val Royeaux, the magnificent Chantries built to honour their Maker, - the ones here are squat and simplistic, by comparison. She misses the fashions. And oh, the _rain. _The ever-constant Fereldan _rain._

She sighs, bringing the blade round in a quick, deadly twirl, stepping forward into a slash that could cut through a man's chest like butter, her breath puffing in her ears.

Unspeakable horrors. Dungeons, the sickly, metallic scent of blood and betrayal, her friend lying lifeless on the rack...

She shuts her eyes and exhales, being very careful not to move; then she remarks quietly, "Very good, Zev."

She can almost _feel_ him smile, the blade at her throat slowly withdrawn, and he purrs, "Not quite as rusty as I had thought."

She turns to see him standing, head cocked to one side, considering her, and he asks, after a pause, "Your bardmaster?"

She almost doesn't answer. It would be so _easy_ to simply deny him. "Marjolaine Vareau."

"Ah," he says, looking past her. He seems lost in thought, the smile falling from his face. "An impressive woman. Not one I would like to meet again, if I may say." He takes his other dagger in hand, the smile returning. "A match?"

She nods, feeling the familiar grin come to her face. There was a time when the thought of killing for a rich man's whim would have raised this smile, this pleasure in another's blood. She almost fights it, then relents, letting the thrill seep through her. "If you like."

They circle each other, and the elf says casually, "I should have recognised her work. I am ashamed that I didn't."

Something in her clenches, but she has always been good at lying with her body, and keeps circling him, not even batting an eyelid. "Her 'work'?"

He laughs, but it's rough and not quite convincing. "Oh, the stories she told." He steps forward, the move lightning-fast, and nearly catches her with a blade to the stomach; she sidesteps just in time, raising her dagger to his own arm. He simply grins. "You were not her first, nor her last."

She grits her teeth, the sudden news unwelcome, and brings her blade close to his throat before he dodges, too fast.

"Distractions, distractions," he chides, his breath on her neck, and she twirls, bringing the blade to slash across his face. He puts a palm to the slash across his nose and cheeks, his hand coming away bloody. He cocks his head once again, this time in a slight surrender, and looks at her. "Better."

"Not the last?" she asks, stepping backwards.

He shakes his head. "Even assassins have their habits." He suddenly rolls in the dirt, his blade again aiming for her neck as he makes to stand, but she kicks him hard in the stomach. He makes a small, winded, "Oof," sprawling on the ground. Something in the air has changed, become more than just a friendly sparring match. She lunges with her dagger, but he easily rolls to the side; as she falls, he takes hold of her wrist, the dagger dropping, and reaches out a leg to pin hers to the ground, smiling at her rakishly and remarking, "I am sure many men would envy me at this moment." His face sobers as he looks at her. "Surely you have made your fair share of... mistakes? Some must be fed to the wolves for all to survive."

She scowls at him. "No. _Never._"

He stands, brushes himself off, and says breezily, "You will. Our kind are much the same, at their heart."

She looks up at him. "I am _not _like you. Or her."

He saunters back towards his corner of camp, looking at her over his shoulder with what is almost, but not quite, a smirk. "We are all killers, are we not?"

She would like to say no. She is a sister, a warrior for her country, and she fights for justice.

Yet...

There is so much blood on her hands, and his words ring horribly true.

She is left sitting in the mud, her thoughts swimming in uncomfortable directions.


	119. Slow

_Another "please don't hate me for this" chapter. Turned out a little darker than expected, but trying to write a slomance/character study fic while listening to Massive Attack ("Saturday Come Slow", if you're interested) pretty much** guaranteed **dark._

_Little violent, I'm afraid, but it's important violence._

**Slow**

**Alistair**

He looks over his shoulder at the uncomfortable prickle, running down the back of his neck and through his spine, the half-song suddenly lodged in his head, and growls, "Darkspawn."

A sword being unsheathed. Morgana next to him, eyes grim. A nod. The sounds of the others arming themselves.

He weighs his sword in his hand, and waits.

The beasts break through the treeline snarling and grunting, harsh, maniacal cackles ringing in the air.

Leliana stands next to Morgana, and he catches Zevran darting a glance at the bard, but it's forgotten in the fight.

He barely bats an eyelid at the horrible squelching of steel on and in flesh, wading further into the fight, but all the time he's looking for _her, _for the flash of magic...

There it is, warm around him, and he can _feel _her power humming in the air. He remembers all the teachings, wonders how he could ever have been scared of _this, _wanted to dispel it- he loves it, he realizes, the feeling of a hand waiting to catch him when he falls, the reminder other than the taint that she's here.

It's different from other mages', her magic, he suddenly notices, ducking a hurlock's clumsy sword swing; it kicks him, hard, on the shin, and he prays not to hear the telltale _snap. _He thanks the Maker when it doesn't come, backs away, looking at the thing before him.

It grins at him, as expected, launches itself at him...

Darkspawn are a lot of things. _Smart_ is definitely not one of them.

He catches it while it's in midair with his sword, the kill brutal, and gets a faceful of genlock, spitting out that awful, inhuman blood and pushing the midget corpse off him.

A _clank _of armour behind him, and he feels the blade slide between plates, into his back, another slicing across the backs of his kneecaps - rushed, in the wrong place, but enough.

Maybe this is the one to end it, the one that finally got past him. He's been trained not to let his guard down, but he was distracted, and _stupid..._

He hears an exclamation from close to him, Morgana's voice hoarse. "_Not __**him**__, you bastard!_"

He hears the stonefist before he sees it, backing away quickly, and the mage-made boulder slams into the hurlock's chest, knocking it what must be three feet off the ground. All he can do is watch in disbelief as it gasps its last, pain burning across his skin... and the muscle inside it, he knows.

He glances across at her in shocked silence (Not _him_, she said, like it particularly mattered that it was _him, _and_ why?_) and she meets his eye, her breath still heavy, her eyes still wide, her sword on the ground, and runs for him.

The thought is unbidden. Funny, he'd never thought mages were that fast.

He watches her, as if from far away, his breathing heavier in his ears than usual as he fights to ignore the pain, to not let it overwhelm him.

Morgana. His friend; his healer; his fellow Warden, but she could be so much more.

Does she want to be?

The last darkspawn falls behind him - Leliana, probably - but he doesn't turn. Would be a little hard, anyway, he reflects, as his legs seem to have decided to give up the fight, crumpling a little beneath him. Okay, a little more.

Morgana kneeling beside him, because he's finally on the ground, her face scared; she forces off her gloves, bringing glowing hands to him desperately.

He reaches up, a memory of wanting to touch her like this coming back to him (the Brecilian Forest, he remembers, and why _didn't _he, Maker, he's stupid sometimes) and gently wipes some of the blood off her face with a murmur of, "Much better."

She swallows, leans closer. "Lie still. _Please._"

He manages an awkward nod, things seeming to slip further away; the only thing that makes sense, is anywhere near him, is the feel of her gentle hands, turning him on his side - he hears the Antivan, so, with help? - and questing to find wounds, her little hissed breaths as she does.

He hears the gasped, "_Don't do this to me, please don't do this to me," _and remembers a dripping mage in his arms and his own hissed words, asking of her the same.

He'd reach out and comfort her, if he could. Even in the blood-soaked haze, surprise comes through as he finally understands his own panic at the river side. That long? He still hadn't realized what it was then, but he'd certainly _felt _it...

The thought comes to him, sudden and painful.

He _has _to know if this is returned, wanted. He needs her in a way he's never needed _anyone_ before, and a little part of him is still surprised that he's found someone like her; he still expects her to slip away when he's not looking, thinks he's making more of a fool of himself with every word. Rare, wonderful, unexpected. Beautiful, and it's taken him far too long to notice.

He remembers his words to Leliana; he's been waiting for the "right time", but maybe there_ isn't_ a right time. Or maybe _this_ is it. He doesn't know, but maybe it's not important.

He _has _to know.

The darkness welcomes him with comforting arms, and he slides into its embrace with a small sigh; he thinks he hears his name, but it doesn't matter.

Does anything?


	120. Contact

**Contact**

**Wynne**

She hears her name being called, and looks up from her book to be greeted with the sight of Amell, Leliana and Zevran carrying an unconscious, severely bloodied Alistair into camp. She doesn't miss the sight of the other mage's hands shaking, steadily glowing, can feel the pull on the Veil from the woman's distress; she must be calmed, and quickly.

She stands, and her expression of shock must be obvious, for Amell gasps roughly by way of explanation, "Stabbed in the back."

The Senior Enchanter in her takes over, and she says, shortly, "Lay him down, then."

The three of them carry him to a nearby tent, leave him there, and step out, letting her stride past them and duck into the tent. She strips him of the armour without batting an eyelid, even though it's heavier than it looks and this tent is so very _small_ - having to heal templars was nothing unusual at the Circle - and starts work on his shirt. She hears the sounds of armour and low cursing outside, but pays them no mind.

That is, until the other Warden climbs into the tent in only a tunic and trousers, as bloodied as he is, and looks at her, eyes lyrium blue and desperate. The words are low, harsh. "Let me. Please. I need to know how..."

This is not like their lessons of spirit healing, nor the childish wound-stitching the girl practised with Anders. She wonders whether she should risk it, then remembers the mage's seemingly natural aptitude for creation.

A pause, and she thinks it's the look in the other mage's eyes that makes her give in. She keeps her voice as firm as possible. "Be careful."

The Warden moves to kneel next to him, helping her. She winces as the blood and the wound catch fabric, and they have to rip it off quickly.

An artery? she wonders, pity twisting her heart as she sees the state of the lad.

Her eyes meet Amell's, and she nods, almost imperceptibly.

The woman swallows, bending to run a hand over the wound, and shuts her eyes. There's a small, shocked breath, and she tenses as the sympathetic pain comes to her, then she opens her eyes, looks at him again, her face stricken.

The younger mage picks up the gathered water and fabric from Wynne's supplies, then cleans the wound gently and carefully, almost as if he'll break under her hands. There is little chance of that, but now doesn't seem like the time to remind her.

Then there is the glow of magic again, this time carefully controlled, and Morgana's hands are running over his back, her brows low.

Wynne nearly doesn't hear the murmured speech; she has heard the girl say things to him when healing him, but this is... different. She thinks it's the Chant, at first, but she knows how Amell feels about the Chantry. The tone is the same, however - hushed, hoarse, clearly clinging onto the words.

She finally manages to pick out a phrase. "... _Gentle pressure..."_

She looks at the other mage, surprised. The basic principles of spirit healing; she's going through the motions in her mind, straight from _Practical Healing_.

The hands do as the mouth commands, still impossibly feather-light, and then stop as she reaches the end of the guidelines. Breathing ragged, Amell closes her eyes, applies the required pressure, and _pulls _on the Veil. They both feel it stretch, the power moving up a layer, and Amell is _spirit _healing, not the simple faster-than-sewing spells she's been performing. As the wound closes, Amell breathes out, then looks up at her, exhausted. The younger woman doesn't seem to realize that her hand is tracing a path down his shoulder blade almost of its own accord, even as the magic cools, begins to ebb. As if simply for the comfort of it. The contact.

Wynne finally knows what she has seen in those eyes that has bothered her so, because it's still there, even though the life-threatening wound has been closed. It's desperate, and it's burning, and yet it's as gentle as that frightened touch. Perhaps it's the reason the touch _was _gentle.

She forgets, sometimes, how very _young _Morgana is (she can't help remembering the frightened little girl that arrived at the Circle, battered and burned), how young _he_ is, despite all they have seen. She forgets how vulnerable they are, how very _easy _it is to fall in love.

What is in those eyes frightens her as much as it makes her hope.


	121. That Sort Of Day

**That Sort Of Day**

**Leliana**

{_Continued from the previous chapter. Update 2/2.}_

The river is cold enough to make her gasp in surprise, and she hears a familiar spluttering and splashing nearby. She spots a blood-soaked Morgana in the river with her.

The mage looks at her in concern, probably because of the fair amount of blood on her also. "Are you all right?"

Leliana gives her a small smile. "Yes. It's... been that sort of day, I think. The question may be, are you?"

Morgana breathes out, laying a hand to her head. "I saved his life tonight."

"As he did yours," Leliana replies smoothly.

Morgana looks up at her, and there's a silence before the other woman moves suddenly, splashing water onto her arms and scrubbing them roughly. "I'm covered... with his _blood..._"

Leliana halts her, taking her by the hands and simply looking at her, her expression open, waiting. "You are a healer. You have been covered with his blood for a good amount of this trip."

Morgana calms, relaxing in her arms and seeming to consider it. "I suppose." A smile, something that can't even be called a laugh - weak, brittle. "It was too close. It was _far_ too close." She shakes her head. "I shouldn't have panicked, I nearly tore the Veil..."

"There is nothing wrong with worrying for those you love," she says simply, cutting the frightened rambling off.

A small, dazed silence. "I... love...? No, I don't think..." Then Morgana seems to shake herself out of it, begins to wash. She looks at her friend as she climbs out of the river, and leliana almost doesn't hear the quiet "Thank you."

After she has dried off and dressed herself, she walks back into camp, looking for the Warden, but finds her absent at the campfire. Wynne gestures silently to Alistair's tent, and she looks over to see the silhouette of a woman, sitting cross-legged and silent in candlelight.

Keeping vigil, perhaps.


	122. Healer

**Healer**

**Alistair**

Consciousness comes to him slowly, his eyes half-opening, and it takes a moment to realise that there's someone else in his tent.

_Someone else_.

The memories hit him like a shock of cold water, and he looks to his side.

Morgana's sat next to his bedroll on a couple of blankets, dressed only in a rumpled shirt and breeches, watching him; seeing that he's awake, worried blue eyes quickly resume pretending to read a book, but he sees her swallow.

He sits up, wincing and hissing in a breath at how much it _hurts _to do it, and raises a hand to the book, gently pushing it to one side. Her gaze flickers to his still-bandaged hand, then back to him as he gives her a thin, bleary-eyed smile and asks, "Anything interesting happen while I was out?"

There's steel in her eyes for a moment, and she seems almost _angry_, then she sighs resignedly, placing the book beside her. "Oh, the usual," she says, her tones false-dismissive. "Nearly-torn Veil. Blood everywhere. Mages panicking over you."

He raises an eyebrow at the plural. "And which mages would those be?" She looks away, and he adds, knowing how extensive the damage must have been, "Though, actually, I should probably thank Wynne." He looks down, hand instinctively moving to his back to touch the worst wound, and is surprised when he finds nothing but a slightly raised scar.

"Probably," she says quietly, still not meeting his eye. "She did an excellent job on the blood."

There are dark circles under her eyes, he notices, and it makes him ask, "How long have you been here?"

"It doesn't matter," she answers evasively; thin blue light shines through the canvas, the beginnings of the morning, and she looks up at it. "A few hours, perhaps."

She's a terrible liar; the slump of her body says _all night_ - he's seen too many fatigued soldiers not to recognise it - and he's astonished that she'd stay with him. A sudden rush of affection for her hits him, and he looks at her, almost willing his expression to give away all that he can't say. He remembers his last thoughts to himself and amends, can't say _yet. _"You didn't have to do that," he says, his voice coming out softer than expected in the silence between them.

He rolls his shoulders experimentally, then, satisfied that everything seems to be in working order, returns his gaze to her, abruptly pausing. She's looking at him in silence, eyes moving to take him in, and she says quietly, "I think you'll find that I did. I... We nearly lost you."

Her voice is a little strained on the last few words, and, surprised as it dawns on him, he thinks he suddenly understands her earlier anger; he moves, about to reach out to her, try and reassure her, but she climbs to her feet, ducking out of the tent with a short, muttered "Breakfast".

He slaps a hand to his forehead, certain he's screwed things up yet again, and is about to make an awkward, painful attempt to climb out of the tent when she re-enters it, proffering a couple of slices of bread. "It's early. The others aren't up yet."

He takes it with a mumbled thank you, supposing it'll do for an hour or so - damn Warden appetite; he looks up as his templar senses begin to kick back in. He hears her ask him what's wrong, but barely registers it, his eyes widening slightly as he recognises that warm, reassuring magic that's still hanging in the air; he stares at her, breathes softly, "It was _you_. You... you can spirit heal?"

She gives him a smile he can only describe as bashful, and replies, "Apparently."

Maker, no _wonder _she can't take a joke on the subject. She was _there. _ A sharp pang of pity washes over him as he berates himself for putting her in such a position. "Was it...?" he begins hesitantly, unable to finish.

She cuts him off. "You were a bit of a mess. Nothing I haven't seen before." She can't look at him while she says it.

"You saved my life." His voice is still slightly disbelieving, and he sits there, trying to process it; she had _said_ creation magic was her strength, but this is advanced. It hits him. "And you weren't even going to _tell _me?"

She mumbles at the ground, "It didn't seem worth it. And Wynne did do a lot of the work... she cleaned you up..."

He checks under the blankets to see that his clothes are clean, not the ruined gear he was wearing. _Wait..._

He brings a hand to his forehead, rubs at it in his embarrassment as he feels his ears beginning to turn red. He has to grind the words out. "Exactly how _much _did you... see... when you healed me?"

"Sorry?" she asks, then halts her eating abruptly, her own cheeks colouring. "Oh. Oh no, I just, ah, healed the sword wound. I went to clean myself up while Wynne did the rest."

He nods, letting out a relieved breath - surely the Chantry has _rules _about that sort of thing, anyway - and they finish off the bread in silence.

He finally says quietly, "Thank you. For the magic. For staying. All of it." He lays a hand on her arm as he says it, feeling the hum of the magic still flowing through her veins. She meets his eye, opening her mouth as if to say something, then seems to decide against it, instead giving him a small smile. He nearly tells her what he feels then, the words just waiting to burst free, but says instead, "I have no idea what I'd do without you." She has saved him, protected him, in so many ways, and he has no _idea _how to thank her.

Her reply is hard to hear, but he catches it. "I can say the same." She's still smiling, and, his throat dry, he remembers what might have been his last thoughts, thinks of the carefully-carried flower in his pack.

Hers, now.


	123. Unexpected

_Oh dear. Had awful, **awful **writer's block for a while there, and some original work that needed tending to. Then FF. net went down. Yes, my past three days just got **better and better**. Finally managed to get this chapter done - block relented when I started typing - and post it._

_(Though I **love** the update date, it really **is **just a coincidence.)_

* * *

><p><strong>Unexpected<strong>

**Morgana**

The stars are out when she sits next to him a few hours later, with a small sigh.

He's nursing a cup of one of Morrigan's herbal teas, his pack resting at his feet, and looks up, giving her a smile.

He still looks drained, she thinks. "How's the back?" she asks, trying to phrase it lightly, but there's concern in her voice.

He shrugs, looking back into the fire. "It's... all right. Still aches a little. It'll fade."

"You'll be knocking me into the mud in no time," she tries, giving him a half-smile, but he looks away from her, eyes clouded and distracted. "Something wrong?"

A pause. He raises his eyes to the sky for a moment, sighing, then, placing his mug aside, looks at her - properly, this time. "I've been thinking... I wasn't going to, but then you did _that_..." He waves his fingers in an awkward gesture, and she realizes that he means the healing. then he slaps a palm to his forehead. "Dear _Maker_, I'm bad at this_. _Look..."

He reaches for his pack, cradles something in his hands as he leans back again, and she can do nothing but stare when he asks her.

Yes, she knows _exactly _what it is. She has read enough to grasp at least a little of the meaning behind a red rose.

She had thought... she had thought it was just her. She looks at him in wonder, this brave man who can barely tell her how he feels, and something in her softens, the last wall finally falling.

He rolls the stem gently, nervously between his fingers as he speaks, and she can see the confidence fading from his voice, his face, as he likens the bloom in his hand to her. _A rare and wonderful thing in all this darkness._

That's how he thinks of her? She's startled, but, watching the man in front of her stumble over his words, thinks she understands that very well.

He calls her _beautiful_, and she looks up at him in surprise; she had started to think that little slip of the tongue was her imagination, but here he is, doing it again, and she remembers the word in _his_ voice.

That... that was in the Brecilian Forest. Exactly how long has he felt like this?

She opens her mouth as if to say something, then wonders what she _can _say, thoughts fighting in her head for dominance. "I..."

He's a prince, all that's left of the Theirin bloodline. He could have the _throne, _for Maker's sake, and what would she do then?

He's tainted, as she is. They are both Wardens; their lives are short, their nights haunted, and either of them could die any day.

He's _Alistair, _and he cares for her, and how long has she wanted this?

He looks away, already dismissing the idea. "I know," he mutters. "It was silly, really, but I just thought..."

She finally acts, cautiously reaching out a hand and taking the flower. She smiles at his surprise when her fingers brush his wrist, the touch gentle but significant. "_No. _No, it's not. It's lovely. And I think... I think I've found something bright in all this as well. I've been thinking it for a while." She gives him a meaningful glance, and his pleased surprise is so very _him _that she can't help it...

There's a moment of frozen surprise as her mouth meets his, and she briefly worries that she's done something wrong; then he responds, his fingers coming up to tangle in her hair. She relaxes into him, wondering why she'd never noticed how _warm _he was before, and feels the beginnings of magic stir in her. It coils out from her hands before she can stop it, healing, pleasant, and doesn't even seem to give him pause. She sighs his name against his lips involuntarily, feels him smile and give a soft laugh. Then he slips an arm round her waist, pulls her closer, and makes her ask herself why she didn't do this _weeks_ ago.

It's unexpected. It's inexperienced. It's _wonderful._


	124. All Of It

**All Of It**

**Alistair**

Apples. Just a hint of magic. His name, so soft he almost doesn't hear it.

And suddenly, he _knows_. He knows what every extra little touch when healing him, every blush, every smile, was for, and he tries with all he has to show that it was returned. All of it.

He still has the taste of her kiss on his lips when he sits back and looks at her, hands resting on her shoulders. "Well, _that_ was... a surprise," he remarks quietly, even now slightly dumbstruck.

There's a hint of colour in her cheeks, and she looks away, almost as if she's ashamed of what she's just done... but why would she ever be _ashamed_ of something like _that? _She asks, equally quietly, "Was... was that all right? I probably shouldn't have, but I..."

He raises a hand to absentmindedly stroke her cheek, musing teasingly, "Nope. Absolutely awful. Hated every second of it." At her silence, he adds, "What do _you _think?"

She mumbles something, and he catches the words "very enthusiastic", before she finally meets his eye with a smile he's never seen before: It's half-bashful, but it's also almost... impish.

It looks good on her.

Maker, he realizes, he's a lucky man.

It's only at her small laugh that he knows he's said the thought aloud, and releases her, embarrassment finally catching up to him. She grins at him, eyes sparkling, and takes a sip of tea; putting it down, she picks up the rose again, saying, "You're one to talk. How do you think_ I _feel?"

The... the same? He's astonished. Something occurs to him, and he observes, "Hey... think you'll be too distracted to spar tomorrow?"

"Oh no," she says casually. "I'm quite prepared to lose."

He wonders briefly what she means, but is distracted by her soft, "Thank you." He has no idea what to do next, his mind still busy working up the courage to give a kiss of his own, so they simply sit together, watching the fire, tea going cold beside them.

He says nothing when he feels her hand gently wrap around his own, but his smile grows just a little wider.


	125. Early

**Early**

**Leliana**

She is up unusually early.

She enjoys this time of peace, quiet, in the morning, the others all asleep except for Alistair. The two of them are quite comfortably ignoring each other, both knowing the other is busy.

She recites the prayers that he chooses to neglect as she watches the sun rise, lips silently moving. She begins the first preparations; the snow has waned behind them, and they're now on pleasantly grassy slopes. She had noticed the apple trees earlier in their travels, and now she picks the fruit slowly, leisurely, the Chant still in her head and moving through her lips.

When she returns to the fire with nearly a sackful of apples, he's already there, yawning. "Morning."

"And to you," she replies brightly, quartering the apples and dropping them into the pot.

He has laid aside his sword, is lacing his boots, and there's a silence; she hums softly as she works, turns at hearing a sigh behind her. He's idly watching the birds, a smile playing round the corners of his mouth.

"You seem in good spirits," she observes, and he looks at her, startled.

"Huh? Oh. Right." He clears his throat, seeming embarrassed, then takes something out of his pocket, a rumpled piece of parchment that she recognises well, and begins to read silently, brow occasionally furrowing. "I think we still have a trek before we reach Orzammar." A pause as he measures the scale. "Seems like it'll be something like a month, at this rate." He exhales, folds it, looks at his knees. The question is quiet, and a surprise to her. "All these things, these... etiquette and flirting rules, and... whatever it is in Orlais..." He waves a hand dismissively. "Did they ever talk about being... well..._ yourself?_"

She laughs. "Oh yes. We were told it was most definitely a bad idea." At his lack of reply, she adds, "We had many, many social rules in Orlais. It did not mean we _followed _them."

He gives a small laugh of his own, and looks away as they hear a yawn and the sound of stretching. Zevran saunters out of his tent a moment later, half-dressed and giving them both a wide grin, then begins the journey to the nearest water source.

The peace is broken. They will all be along shortly. She raises her eyes briefly heavenwards, but smiles. She likes this time, when they are all simply... _themselves_, not warriors or Wardens_._

A _thump. _A curse. She and Alistair exchange small smiles and eye-rolls (never mind that he is just as bad himself in the mornings).

Morgana half-falls out of her tent, a yawn still ending as she does, but hastily straightens as she sees them. Her eyes briefly flit to Alistair, as always, and Leliana only just stops herself shaking her head. Honestly, how he can stay so blind...

He gives his fellow Warden a small half-smile; she returns it, sinking to the ground next to him with a _thud. _She attempts to finger-comb her hair before giving up and looking around, bleary-eyed. "Have I missed something?"

They both seem to realize at the same time that they've been staring at her. Alistair swiftly averts his gaze, rubbing his neck awkwardly, and Leliana just says, "Only the sunrise. And Zevran. Both were pleasant sights."

Morgana coughs, colour blooming in her cheeks; she shares a glance with her fellow Warden, seems to realize that they are both in the same state, and grins widely at him. The quiet stretches, and something changes in the air. Then it's gone, their eyes moving sheepishly back to her, and Morgana says loudly, "So. Breakfast. Then..."

"Sparring?" he suggests. "Think I'm up to it now."

"If you're sure..." The mage trails off, then looks at him. "Why not?"

Leliana's lips twitch, and, recalling what was and is so obviously between them, she wonders when they will finally discover it.

Soon, she thinks.


	126. Distraction

_Just realized that we hit the 450 review mark last chapter! Staring open-mouthed at my screen right now. Thank you to everyone who's left feedback; it really does brighten up my day._

_A double update, so an early - and rather silly - chapter. A second should be later today._

* * *

><p><strong>Distraction<strong>

**Morgana**

The sword feels good in her hand after the couple of days of rest. Comfortable, familiar.

Now armoured, he weighs his own blade in his hand, flexing his wrist. He obviously feels the same. He looks up from it, giving her a half-smile that's a promise, and, in this case, a challenge. Almost the same as the one he gave her after...

She feels heat come to her cheeks as she remembers the kiss, grip briefly loosening on her sword hilt; he raises his eyebrows slightly, thoughts seemingly in the same direction, just a hint of colour in his own face.

Damn. He _knows _he does this to her.

She wonders if the others have worked it out yet; they're still in the main camp, working through tactics and sparring themselves.

She rolls her shoulders, a habit she's acquired from him, and gives him a wide grin when he doesn't move towards her. "A little rusty, are we?"

His own smile grows wider, and he finally steps forward. "As if. Says the woman who still can't set an _ochs._" He cocks his head, eyebrows raising again. Again, a challenge, and one she's happy to meet.

They circle each other, small _clank_s of metal from their armour the only sounds, before he remarks, pseudo-casually, "Your posture is off."

Her gaze briefly flickers down to her feet, then straight back to him. She recognises his attempts to throw her off. "Almost." She lunges for him, nearly getting past his guard, but he steps back, throwing up an arm.

Blade meets bracer, his eyes meet hers, and he murmurs, "Better." Hazel eyes dart momentarily to her lips, which are wearing a triumphant smile, and then he backs away with a soft laugh. "Guess I shouldn't be going so easy on you." He dodges one of her frustrated stabs, but it catches him in the side plates of his armour. He looks down before stepping away, dislodging it with a gloved hand. "Definitely not. But it's rather difficult to act like _you're _a darkspawn."

She smiles in sympathy for a moment, still circling him. "I know. But distractions..."

"Are bad. Yes." He goes in for a low swipe, knees bent, graceful but efficient, in a move that would have taken her kneecaps if not for the armour. She nearly falls, shifting her balance at the last moment and only just managing to steady herself. Then she looks at him, breathing heavily, and wipes her brow.

His eyes are softer, and he says quietly, "Well, you're certainly... distracting."

A low laugh, and she asks teasingly, "Getting soft?"

"What, me? _Never." _He springs forward, in a move aiming straight for the chest.

They cross swords briefly, but her reflexes let her down, and when he sweeps her ankles out from under her with a swift foot (surprisingly dirty move for a templar-in-training, she thinks), she ends up, as usual, on the ground and at the point of his sword. Hers is somewhere a few feet away, having slid away in the fight. This would have scared her, once, when she was fresh out of the Circle and so _naive_. Now he gives her a small, slightly crooked smile, and her heart isn't speeding up from fear.

"Nope," he says, "I think it's definitely _you _that's getting rusty." He stabs his sword beside him on the ground, then, as always, offers her a hand, eyes kind.

She takes it, lets him pull her up... and _further..._

She understands his intention quite quickly. Arms tight round her, he proceeds to give her a surprisingly gentle second kiss, ignoring the slight awkwardness of armour (she thanks the Maker they're only in basic mail, rather than heavy plate).

They both knew that the sparring was as much of an excuse to be alone than actual _training, _but she only freely admits it now_._

She breaks away reluctantly, still slightly breathlessly, and looks round at the sound of a quietly-cleared throat.

Leliana and Zevran stand only a couple of feet away, the elf leaning against a tree, the two both giving them almost identically amused (and slightly lascivious) smiles.

Well, there goes the "not letting the whole camp know". She pauses, arms still around Alistair's neck, speech temporarily deserting her except for one word.

"Bugger."


	127. The East Road

_So... The promised double update didn't happen. And nor did the updates, generally. I have to apologise - it was due to illness, which, while I have occasionally been online, hasn't made writing too easy, and I should have review replies out soon. In the meantime, I thought it was more important to get another chapter out, so here it is. _

* * *

><p><strong>The East Road<strong>

**Leliana**

Well, well.

"'Sparring', are we?" Zevran asks.

Morgana steps away from her fellow Warden, cheeks red, and coughs. "Yes. Well, we were."

Alistair brushes himself off, and surprises them all by looking at them, unflustered, and asking briskly, "Problem?"

No. Not at all.

"We had come to tell you that we think we should take the east road," she says, stepping forward and showing them the map; they frown down at it, Morgana's mouth moving silently, working out the geography.

"Seems about right," Alistair says eventually, looking to his fellow Warden for confirmation. She nods, and the four of them start to make their way back to camp, a half-embarrassed, half-pleased silence between their leaders.

* * *

><p>Morgana is counting their supplies of elfroot when she eventually manages to find her; she sees her and looks away again, blushing slightly.<p>

Leliana sits next to her with a quiet, "So..."

"So," Morgana counters shortly.

"I see certain things... happened in my absence?"

She refuses to meet her eye, running a hand over the stalks. "Not much." Leliana is about to speak, if just to fill the silence, when she suddenly says, "He gave me a rose. I might have... er..." She swallows. "Kissed him."

She raises her eyebrows, fighting not to show her surprise. "You made the first move?"

Morgana nods, says little, but a small smile is on her face.

* * *

><p>They set off the next day without ceremony, taking, as advised, the east road, but she watches the two Wardens in front of her with a careful eye, taking in their awkwardly affectionate body language.<p>

Andraste, how did she miss it?


	128. Lothering, Redux

_I'm back! Turned out to be a lot more ill than I thought I was, and haven't been able to write much, but hopefully things should be about back to normal service._

_So, Alistair and Morgana have finally been able to tell each other how they feel. The party are on their way to Orzammar. And, meanwhile..._

_OK, **this chapter isn't altogether pleasant, and possibly the closest to an M I've ever had to write, so skip it at will**, but I hope it explains a few things._

_Let's say Uldred revolts shortly after Ostagar. Anders runs away sometime mid-point between Ostagar and Uldred's rebellion, after the former but before the latter (it explains how he'd have survived the Tower's events). He still doesn't know what's happened at the Circle._

_This one's a bit of a surprise, I know, but we started with Jowan's POV, didn't we?_

* * *

><p><strong>Lothering, Redux<strong>

**Anders**

He's still breathing heavily, feet pounding the dirt, and only slows once he reaches the trees, hands on his knees and bent over double.

He looks over his shoulder, relieved when he only hears the sounds of the forest around him. He still half-expects the _clank_ of armour, the shouts behind him.

He's been running for... he doesn't know how long. He thinks it's been weeks now. Begging food, or stealing it, replacing robes with clothes stolen from villagers.

His stomach rumbles, loudly and ominously. How long is it since he's last eaten?

He looks around in disbelief at what he sees when he breaks through the treeline. This was a small trading post last time he saw it, poor but cheery enough. The people made do.

That was before the Blight, though.

The remains of camps are still smoking, and he winces as he walks through blackened canvas. He has to look away from the first corpse, speared like an animal sacrifice, and he wonders what would _do this. _The lucky ones have been killed quickly, without the gruesome ritual, and are shrouded in the remains of their tents.

His fists clench, his teeth gritting; this is against everything he wants, everything he knows he should do - he wants to reach out, _heal, _but there's nothing left, no-one to help.

He stops as he reaches it, has to stare; he steps quietly over armour-plated corpses, the _crunch _of his steps on the ground the only noise, and looks at it in disbelief.

The windows of the village Chantry have been blown out, half of the roof gone, the doors laid open wide like the mouth of a gutted animal. He swallows, steps forward, keeps going, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Blood stains the stone floors, a few bodies watching him unseeingly, and he fights the impulse to reach down and close their eyes. Too many, too little time.

Self-loathing rises as he drags the chests out from debris and ashes, things falling loudly around him, and his lips curl. If Karl could see him now...

A hollow ache fills his heart, and he shakes his head, fighting to rid himself of it.

The villagers' last possessions. Books, clothes - he takes a few that he thinks might fit him - and a half-eaten pie. It's enough.

He stands, walking through blood and black, sticky flesh, until he reaches the other side of the village. He breathes out, slowly, and turns to take one last look. It's ruined, a wasteland incapable of harbouring life.

He strides through brown, dead grass, manages to climb up crumbling stone onto the Highway, and begins to walk, eyes set on the horizon, praying he won't meet what met Lothering.

* * *

><p>The signs of the black, sticky death lessen as he continues, and he wonders when he'll have to start taking the woodland trails again, hiding. For now, he stays on the road, hoping that his normal clothing will be enough to convince any journeying templars that he's no-one special.<p>

He strays from the path to sleep as the sky begins to darken, gathers a few sticks from the woods to start a fire. Something catches, trailing on his foot, as he begins the trek back to the trail. Frowning, he glances around him and then summons a small wisp.

It's torn, animal-eaten blue cloth, the pattern faded and the careful embroidery he knows so well almost unravelled completely.

His heart speeds up. He crouches, putting the branches aside and gathering it in his hands, not caring about the dirt and the insects. A female apprentice's, a woman by the looks of it. It's heavier than he expected, almost as if...

He shakes it, and there's an answering _clink. _He looks down at it, eyes wide. Chiding himself for his stupid instinct, he turns it over in his hands, searching...

_There. _The hastily-sewn extra pocket in violet cloth, the yellow button...

_Morgana. _Maybe his instinct isn't so stupid after all. Mouth dry, he reaches inside it, and his hand falls upon something glass, round. He pulls the lyrium vial out, pockets it, and takes out the other item: a crumpled piece of paper. It's, like the robe, torn and eaten, water smudging the ink almost unrecognisably, but he makes out the words _Lothe..._ and _Re_...

The rest of it's gone, but he recognises the names well enough. Planning a route, then.

He remembers who she was with, the legend spreading through the Tower. Amell, the Grey Warden. She'd left without goodbyes, after what that bastard Jowan did... Why would she be _helping _him, anyway? Since when was _she_ a blood mage? She was supposed to have died at Ostagar with the others, he learnt shortly before he ran away, but this...

This was written afterwards, considering the route from the Tower to Ostagar. She must have got through the Wilds. How? Even he'd had to take a different route, not daring to chance trying to navigate the swamp.

He doesn't want to think too hard about why this would be here, why she wouldn't be wearing it...

He puts the small, useless little map into his pocket as well, then drops the tattered robe and ventures further into the forest, where his fire won't be seen. He doesn't expect to get much sleep.


	129. An Explanation

•

**An Explanation **

Well, this is a long'un, and a little self-indulgent (God, and I thought my end-of-Shep/Tali-series author's note was bad - just looked at the word count for this). Skip if you like. I'll put at least bits of it on my profile, but certain parts only apply here.

This will be a goodbye to many, I think. Life has changed rapidly and in a lot of different directions that were... well, unexpected, both positive and negative. It seemed very unfair to just go AWOL with so much unfinished and so many still not thanked, so hopefully this should offer some sort of an explanation.

It's been great. I've loved the community and the sense of all being in it together that I've found. I've loved finding people with common interests, and having long, rambling conversations about nothing in particular. I've loved the writing tips, the support, the discovery of new music and new interests. I'm still a proud RPG geek, and still - to an extent - in the community (think I'll be occasionally lurking around LiveJournal), but it doesn't look like I'll be participating in fanfiction anymore. Much as I've loved the fandom and the things it's alerted me to, events have moved my focus away from it, in a way that feels very permanent.

Hopefully, for anyone that wants to read - or re-read, if I'm that lucky - my work, I've left a fairly sizeable archive behind me (forty-nine stories! How did _that_ happen?) that shows the way I write. Even if I'm not around, I hope people like the evidence of the time I spent in this community.

Thanks for the support, the reviews and the virtual pats on the back, for keeping reading and just... _sticking around_. It's improved my confidence in getting my writing _out there_ to no end. Thank you for the long PMs about everything from the Chantry and the Dark Ritual to Shep/Tali and the music of Holst; for the great, involving stories, the work of people that have put so much of their heart and soul into the worlds they love.

As for _Armour_? Writing it's been great, and it's very strange to see how my style and technique have changed (matured, I guess) as I've gone along. In my head, Alistair and Morgana are certainly Grey Warden-ing off into the sunset together, but, hey... we'll have to see what Dragon Age III has in store.

Guess I'm doing the same. I'd put a smart Dragon Age or Mass Effect quote here ("I should go" doesn't quite seem to cut it), but since I can't think of one...

Well, it's been an absolute blast. So long, all, and thank you.

_~Rose_


End file.
